a rose is a rose
here in the north, spring is the most expectant season, summer the most lush, autumn the most showy, and winter the most dramatic. winter with its slant light, long shadows, and black and white contrast, asks me to stop, look closely, and notice the details. notice the the zigzagging stems, the deep pink next-year buds, the flaxen yellow leaves. see. this too is rose.
wild rose stems
a november marigold
a november marigold is still a marigold. when we think marigold, the image that comes to mind is the marigold in full bloom during high summer. but this marigold is also marigold. and those porcupine like seeds are also marigold (who knew?). my personal goal is to expand my visual dictionary– so when i hear marigold , or iris, or rose, or tulip, or thistle, or milkweed, i don’t only think of the most obvious expression of each but also all the other ways marigold can be marigold.
a random day in november 2020
this is an old favorite i am revisiting–a massive burdock leaf i peeled from a downed log a couple of years ago. i am posting this because nothing major happened today. i visited my mom, and i had tea with my bestie krisitin, and then i made carne asada tacos for the family, then i sat in front of the fire with my steve until it was too late to create a still blog for the day. so. there you are. i hope you understand.
winter burdock leaf
november gardens, when everything has begun to wilt and decay, but before the snow falls, may be my favorite harvest season. i recently watched a documentary on piet oudolf, the designer of the nyc high line gardens among many other famous gardens. the documentary showed the expansive gardens surrounding his home in the netherlands through a whole year. the late-fall, early winter garden, frozen between blooming and being blown clean, was by far my favorite. his too, it turns out.
when winter comes early
this year winter came early to minnesota. these lilac leaves never had a chance to slowly fade and fall away. they got attacked by an early frost and have been clinging to the branches ever since in their frostbit agony. the way they have clung to life along the central vein feels so familiar. we humans do the same thing, losing our extremities to cold first, in order to preserve our core. now i am feeling chilled inside my 70 degree house. and feeling empathy for lilac leaves.
frost bitten lilac leaves