We’re almost there

Winter solstice is a week from tomorrow. Christmas follows a few days later. Are you beginning to feel a sense of relief that, no matter what else happens, soon the days will be getting longer and, in a couple of weeks, we’ll have the clean slate of a whole new year ahead of us? It’ll be up to US to see what we can make of it.

For the past two years, I’ve been intending to try planting a three sisters garden. There’s an old saying that the third time's a charm. Maybe next spring I’ll break ground. We’ll see what the weather holds in store. Meanwhile, I’m wondering why we haven’t been seeing cardinals more frequently at the feeders. Maybe I need to try a tray feeder again, although all they usually do is attract squirrels.

presents under the tree

Photo by J. Harrington

A package arrived today from my sister in Massachusetts. We now have the first present under this year’s tree. No doubt it’s the start of a short-term trend until the tree looks something like the picture above from a Christmas past. This Christmas is going to be more convoluted than usual. Usually we celebrate the holliday in the morning and our son’s birthday from noon on. This year staff from his group home are ony available in the morning so we do Christmas/birthday for him, birthday for all in morning and Christmas for the rest of the family in the afternoon, except for the three-year-old Granddaughter who gets to celebrate what she wants when she wants.

Now, if only we can locate the missing package of Christmas books, we’ll be in even better shape. Holidays are such fun!

December

Christopher Pearce Cranch      1813 – 1892

No more the scarlet maples flash and burn 
       Their beacon-fires from hilltop and from plain; 
The meadow-grasses and the woodland fern 
       In the bleak woods lie withered once again.

The trees stand bare, and bare each stony scar 
       Upon the cliffs; half frozen glide the rills; 
The steel-blue river like a scimitar 
       Lies cold and curved between the dusky hills.

Over the upland farm I take my walk, 
       And miss the flaunting flocks of golden-rod; 
Each autumn flower a dry and leafless stalk, 
       Each mossy field a track of frozen sod.

I hear no more the robin's summer song 
       Through the gray network of the wintry woods; 
Only the cawing crows that all day long 
       Clamor about the windy solitudes.

Like agate stones upon earth's frozen breast, 
       The little pools of ice lie round and still; 
While sullen clouds shut downward east and west 
       In marble ridges stretched from hill to hill.

Come once again, O southern wind,—once more 
       Come with thy wet wings flapping at my pane; 
Ere snow-drifts pile their mounds about my door, 
       One parting dream of summer bring again.

Ah, no! I hear the windows rattle fast; 
       I see the first flakes of the gathering snow, 
That dance and whirl before the northern blast. 
       No countermand the march of days can know.

December drops no weak, relenting tear, 
       By our fond summer sympathies ensnared; 
Nor from the perfect circle of the year 
       Can even winter's crystal gems be spared. 

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