A Gossamer World

Yesterday I headed out to Carver Park Reserve to see if I could find frost covered landscapes to photograph. While not all of the park’s trees were frost covered there were areas that made it look like

I figured that there might be more fog west of here out in the countryside and I was happy to find out that I was correct. The further west I drove, the more the trees and landscapes were covered with frost. The most beautiful trees that I saw on my drive were along Highway 7 just before I turned off on the country road that led to Carver Park Reserve.

Of course, because I was driving and the trees were along a busy highway I didn’t try to stop and photograph them. As I entered the park the further I got towards the nature center and trailheads, the less frost there was.

I wish I understood more about micro climates because I do not understand why seemingly similar adjacent areas were either totally frost covered or completely frost free.

However, I found beautiful gossamer landscapes to photograph and greatly enjoyed my hike. Though I wish we might see the sun again one of these days I am happy that we are having above average temperatures this January. It makes a nice break to spend plenty of time outdoors. And every day that passes moves us closer to spring.

What a beautiful gossamer world I saw yesterday. And then again this morning when I looked out our windows and saw that the trees all around our house were covered with frost.

A Letter from Home

She sends me news of blue jays, frost,
Of stars and now the harvest moon
That rides above the stricken hills.
Lightly, she speaks of cold, of pain,
And lists what is already lost.
Here where my life seems hard and slow,
I read of glowing melons piled
Beside the door, and baskets filled
With fennel, rosemary and dill,
While all she could not gather in
Or hid in leaves, grow black and falls.
Here where my life seems hard and strange,
I read her wild excitement when
Stars climb, frost comes, and blue jays sing.
The broken year will make no change
Upon her wise and whirling heart; –
She knows how people always plan
To live their lives, and never do.
She will not tell me if she cries.

I touch the crosses by her name;
I fold the pages as I rise,
And tip the envelope, from which
Drift scraps of borage, woodbine, rue.

— Mary Oliver