Officially autumn will be over on December 21 and the days will start getting longer again. The garden is never static in this climate. Most deciduous foliage has changed color and fallen but a few plants here and there are hanging on to green foliage a little while longer. Dashing out in the rain today, my intent was to find a combination of fading foliage along with green hope for the new year. I decided that this stoneware mug that my pottery teacher made in the 70's would be a suitable container. For years, I used this to hold hot chocolate laced with schnapps on nights when the snow was coming down so hard that it was clear that work would be cancelled the next day - a little winter celebration.
The Osmunda regalis in the back garden is still green but the one in the side garden has taken on a beautiful buff color and was the first thing I cut. It's joined by a sprig of evergreen Jacobaea maritima (Dusty Miller,) a faded hydrangea bloom, a Fatsia japonica leaf and the purple berries of Callicarpa. The garden is both shutting down for winter and bringing forth fresh new blooms, the sign of a new garden season to come. Autumn tucked into winter.
The solstice marks the shortest day and carries the promise of the return of light. It's also advent, a season of waiting and expectation. This glass paperweight with an interplay of light and darkness seemed an appropriate prop.
I have a thing for boxes and tend to squirrel things away in them. This one contains glass jewels to use in stained glass windows. What treasure will the new year bring? What dreams may come?
Sleep by Charles Anthony Silvestri
The evening hangs beneath the moon,
A silver thread on darkened dune.
With closing eyes and resting head
I know that sleep is coming soon.
Upon my pillow, safe in bed,
A thousand pictures fill my head.
I cannot sleep, my mind’s a-flight;
And yet my limbs seem made of lead.
If there are noises in the night,
A frightening shadow, flickering light,
Then I surrender unto sleep,
Where clouds of dream give second sight,
What dreams may come,
both dark and deep,
Of flying wings and soaring leap
As I surrender unto sleep,
As I surrender unto sleep.
The Osmunda regalis in the back garden is still green but the one in the side garden has taken on a beautiful buff color and was the first thing I cut. It's joined by a sprig of evergreen Jacobaea maritima (Dusty Miller,) a faded hydrangea bloom, a Fatsia japonica leaf and the purple berries of Callicarpa. The garden is both shutting down for winter and bringing forth fresh new blooms, the sign of a new garden season to come. Autumn tucked into winter.
The solstice marks the shortest day and carries the promise of the return of light. It's also advent, a season of waiting and expectation. This glass paperweight with an interplay of light and darkness seemed an appropriate prop.
I have a thing for boxes and tend to squirrel things away in them. This one contains glass jewels to use in stained glass windows. What treasure will the new year bring? What dreams may come?
Sleep by Charles Anthony Silvestri
The evening hangs beneath the moon,
A silver thread on darkened dune.
With closing eyes and resting head
I know that sleep is coming soon.
Upon my pillow, safe in bed,
A thousand pictures fill my head.
I cannot sleep, my mind’s a-flight;
And yet my limbs seem made of lead.
If there are noises in the night,
A frightening shadow, flickering light,
Then I surrender unto sleep,
Where clouds of dream give second sight,
What dreams may come,
both dark and deep,
Of flying wings and soaring leap
As I surrender unto sleep,
As I surrender unto sleep.
Many thanks to our amazing host, Cathy at Rambling in the Garden who encourages us to bring something inside from the garden or scavenged nearby each Monday.
