The last time I was at our garden plot was October. There has been snow since before Christmas. As they don’t plow the gravel roads that lead to the gardens, I left my car behind in safer areas, and decided to take a walk in the snow with my new camera. These are my footprints, solely present, as it appeared no one had set foot here in months.
It was a day with biting, crisp air, like biting into a freshly picked apple. The sun dazzled the snow, and it flashed its reflection back in answer.
I took to the high road that was windswept, to avoid the deeper beds of snow. When I reached our garden plot, the snow was halfway up my calves.
The gate was missing, presumed fallen from winds, then buried beneath the cold fallen clouds of snow. I could barely make out the mounds of lasagna layering, due to the depth of the snow. Likely, some of the mounds had shrunk as well. I enhanced the shadowing just to see if they were still present. Yes, they were.
The table in our garden had flipped on its top. At least it won’t break due to the weight of snow. Its four white legs greeted the sky.
Why do I long for this piece of earth? It’s so much work to care for. My winter’s rest should be enjoyed. Yet here I was, with appreciation, admiring it for its existence.