Alone again. This is the space between a face and the window. Snow scene. A line of bare branches hangs out over the road. European drives are pleasing for this sort of picture. And the scent of dressed-up women. Shoes and scarves. Old engines. A group meanders uphill, towards a fire lit building. Rhododendrons and yew line a stacked stone path. A garden is never finished.
Japanese maples. A wood splitting station. Two fountains spill frozen water, and downhill the road turns to river. Are the geese full time? They sleep beneath wings – a comfort for strangers. Mountain fog.
Is rest what we need to turn this picture flush, to green our grey birch scene? Or should we relish such fine winter(ness)? I don’t know how much longer we will remain. But such happiness is never planned.
Black walnut floors, copper pots. I get the sense that this has been painted. The air hangs so still when everyone is gone. So I am left with memory, and a scene from a window.
