In January, we can hardly help looking back, looking forward. Little tendrils of Christmas seem still to hang on.
Here you see the line of demarcation in our yard -- part remains in shade, and part is warmed by sun.
A bit of snow hangs on, near the house.
Some blossoms curl themselves up tight, and don't trust a new spring yet.
While others, too trusting, bloomed and died quickly in the cold.
Dozens of cardinals flit in and out of this rose bush all winter, romancing the spring and the building of nests.
Cinnamon ferns, dry and brown, will stand sentinel until their roots send up their replacements.
Lichens look cold. Moss looks warm.
Beneath this chilly stone a large black snake lives. He waits for the sun to warm his roof and tell him it's time to come out and stretch in its rays.
Dried hydrangeas. Are they more beautiful than their white sisters in the billowing summer? They're certainly more frail, yet they withstand sleet and snow and freezing temperatures. I think they're lovely.
Nature seems to look back at the year past, holding on, waiting, unsure of the sun. We humans overleap the spring, anticipate it, and sometimes fall on our faces.