The leaves are down. The rains and wind have settled in. Our brief Northern days are half dusk and half struggling dawn. A murder of crows patrols the low gray sky. Dour little winter birds descend to scratch and pick what little forage a sleeping Fencebroke has to offer.
From inside, windows are gazed through, as upon harvest memories not so long removed. Weeks of apples, a whole heapa tomatoes, cucumbers every day because why not? Meanwhile, the kitchen fruit basket sulks with waxy, bland, store-bought Produce®. That's not fruit. That's not a salad. Enough is enough.
The back door is cracked like a seal on something new. Flanneled morning sorties assess the garden, coffee in hand. The slumber is evaluated, dormancy surveilled. What designs for the new year? What will be come Spring? More coffee. Plans are laid. Dreams are sown. Let's do quinoa! Pickles! Still more tomatoes! A SCALED REPLICA OF THE GARDENS OF VERSAILLES! Okay, too much coffee. But the first dirt under the nails of tomorrow.
And then, like a beautiful and cathartic mailbox angel (you know, one of those) here to grant some small measure of peace to a weary 2016, the first seed catalog arrives. It brings hope and reassurance, that in the coming year, like every other, there will be seeds to plant. And some will grow, and some will not. And that, as always and after all, is life in the Garden.