Mid-December here in the Florida panhandle has been typical. Temps have ranged from right at freezing all the way into the mid-seventies. There has been some sunshine, but the predominate weather theme has been murky, with thick gray fog lingering past noon like the smoldering remains of a woods fire.
It’s a time when old trees slip the bonds of their worn-out bark, the lithe new being inside escaping through the fog into some sunlit place in the slipstream of time.
A time when leaves, a magnolia seed pod and a stick become art to my hungry eye, arranged as if only for my solitary pleasure.
The blanket of emerald moss evokes the roof of a crofter’s cottage in the Highlands. Oh, to be there, deep in heather, reclining by a blue loch.
But the bright holly says, “Stay. There are children about who might miss you on Christmas Eve.”