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.”
The filaments of this exploded seed pod are so fine and silky, I thought at first it was a spider's web, or a miniatue cotton candy swirl. A steady breeze was blowing on this hot, bright, late September afternoon.