It has snowed and snowed and snowed here during the last few weeks, and all the fine melting work of our fleeting January thaw has been undone. We are right back in the land of winter - if we ever really left it, and although I long for springtime, there are wild wisdoms here to be plumbed. I keep telling myself that over and over again as I ponder the Himalayas which have formed in the garden and are busy thrusting their way upward as I write this. The alternative is to hunker down in a corner with salsa music and a pot of tea and just mutter to myself.
The snow is like popcorn, intensely blue, heavy with moisture and falling in clouds of huge fluffy flakes, filling the garden up in its whirling dance and seeming to give off its own clear light. Snow and wind go together hand in hand, and the north wind has been playing its own blithe games, sculpting artful drifts and slopes and even a spiral here and there.
It's the light that grabs me every time and in every season. No two snowflakes are alike of course, but who knew that they are filled with light, and the shades of blue on offer are intoxicating.