Whispers of November: From Stick Season to Winter’s Rest

November 25, 2019

On this day, as autumn gradually tightens its grip on the garden, we find ourselves amid a quiet transformation.

The garden’s lush summer attire has been shed with a delicate yet inevitable grace, leaving us to appreciate the raw, honest beauty of nature’s autumnal pause.

To a gardener, these words, penned over time, remind us of the subtle symphony of change that November announces with both melancholy and grace.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
– William Cullen Bryant

Ah, Mr. Bryant’s exquisite lament—a perfect portrait of the garden’s waning season.

The “wailing winds” that shake the branches bare, exposing the “naked woods” and brown meadows, call to mind the unmistakable quietness that prompts reflection.

But it is not despair we gardeners should feel, rather a reverence for this essential pause where soil and spirit rest.

She calls it 'stick season,' this slow disrobing of summer,
leaf by leaf, till the bores of tall trees, rattle, and scrape in the wind.
– Eric Pinder, Author

“Stick season,” how precisely charming—a phrase that captures the wistfulness of bark and branch standing starkly against the sky.

Each leaf’s departure is a note in nature’s silent farewell.

To watch the trees shed their summer gowns, one might imagine the garden as a grand but retiring lady, stripping down with poise, preparing for the quiet majesty of winter.

November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.

– Elizabeth Coatsworth

Miss Coatsworth’s vision offers comfort and hope—November’s tender balance of endings and beginnings.

“The last red berries and the first white snows” conjure the final sparkle of life in the garden’s cold repose.

The pottery buckets brim with ice, the gates wear their frost like lace, and inside, fires crackle with diligence, as kettles sing a domestic serenade.

For the gardener, this is the sacred interlude, when earth “sinks to rest,” gathering strength for the exuberance that shall awaken with spring’s tender call.

So, dear gardener, cherish these “melancholy days” as you would a fine aged wine—they are the necessary coda to growth, a whispered promise that every season has its beauty, even when veiled in brown and frost.

Revel in the delicate grace of “stick season,” and let your heart be warmed by the fires both outside and within.