Still a brown winter, but at least it’s cold. Winter in snow is all about structure, but in its absence, texture comes to the fore. Like the weave of a basket, or the grain of an oak floor, the dried remnants of last year’s growth make for a rich tapestry, if I could only notice it. My eyes are still drawn to any flash of color – the fruit of a highbush cranberry, a blue jay or a cardinal.
The best I can do is the dried seed-head of a purple coneflower. It’s still unmistakably a flower, with all the drama and high spirits that implies. But it’s aged – both harder and more delicate than in its prime.