It’s strange how one minute, something can be part of our daily life – a familiar piece of home – and the next, be street-side garbage. The minute it hits the curb, it loses its belonging. That thing that was part of every day becomes only a trace, a glimpse you might catch in a photograph or a memory. It’s just stuff. But it keeps on changing just like everything else.
The garden sleeps, tucked in beneath the snow, undisturbed by the occasional rabbit crossing, unaware of the wind and weather.
Time passes and leaves marks. Blue-gray metal beneath flaking paint and the blue-green hint of patina. Remnant leaves still on the vine almost vibrant in their crunchy orange contrast, a memento of seasons past.
Winter garden: paradigm of biding one’s time.