by Hal Borland

December is a blizzard in Wyoming and a gale on the lakes, and the Berkshires frosted like a plate of cupcakes.

It is bare trees and evergreens.

It is wrestling weed stems and a gleam of partridgeberry on the hillside, a cluster of checkerberries, and winter greens in the thin woodland.

It is ground pine, older than the hills where it grows, and it is a seedling maple from two years ago clinging to one last scarlet leaf.

It is a stiff-tailed young squirrel scrambling up an oak tree, and it is a mask-faced coon in the cornfield listening for the hounds.

It is ice on the pond, lichen on the rock, a flock of chickadees at the dooryard feeder.

 

 


As featured on
The Daily Gardener podcast:

Words inspired by the garden are the sweetest, most beautiful words of all.
December is a Blizzard in Wyoming

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