There’s a stillness peculiar to winter;
A hushed, patient mood of waiting
Out in the garden.
Day melting into frozen night,
The world is reduced to still life.
Hubbub of spring
Still weeks away;
The garden waits, nearly silent.
Animated only by birds, and deer,
And neighbors walking dogs;
There is no buzz of grass growing,
Or swish of unfurling buds.
No hum of bees mutes the clear
And empty silence;
And staccato chime of frozen rain.
Light shifts from dawn to noon to dusk.
Water drips and refreezes
Into oddly rounded forms.
Owls call to their mates across the ravine.
Waves lap the beach.
The rest is still; sculptural in its stark simplicity.
While bear and snake and groundhog sleep,
Our garden waits, glazed into shades of brown.
Tight, windswept and bare,
Landscape reduced to its simplest form.
Our time for seeing the true shape of things.
The winter garden is our gallery.
Ours to wander and enjoy
These still, and silent
Words and Photos by Woodland Gnome 2014