I know, I know. According to T.S. Eliot, the cruelest month is April. I, however, happen to think it is dark, gloomy, cold January.
Even though our seasonal earthly rotations have turned the corner (so to speak) and the days are getting longer again, the rain continues to fall and the skies are a grim shade of gray. There are huge puddles of water about and the gardens are muddy, with an occasional green stem trying to push its way up - gasping for air.
The snowdrops under the tree outside the kitchen door are blooming and I am so mad at them. Why can't they wait a couple of weeks? It's too soon to waste their pure white color when mud is splashing all around them dirtying their petals.
Yesterday, while on a walk, I tried to find something pretty. Or at least interesting. There were leafless bushes, with branches that served as skewers for the dead brown leaves that fell in October and December. Not very attractive. The magnolia trees have those fuzzy buds on them, but please, oh please, don't open yet!
There was bit of heather with flowers. Those were sort of nice.
At last I settled on the green cedar with its pods and "berries." I should have broken off a tiny bit for the wonderful smell!!
I, myself, cannot wait for the hellebores, then the camellias, and then the daffodils! The months between fall and spring seem the longest, although they are cool and provide an opportunity to camouflage the ripples at the waistline - femminismo
