“We’re one, but we’re not the same.
We got to carry each other…
Carry each other…”
The way this house was built, the sun will always rise outside of my bedroom window.
In proximity, it sits in the gap between the house and my shed, and slowly crawls west.
Out past the Brook…
Over the Ridge…
And on the other side of the quarry, it crawls across the Connecticut River in a color that could only be described as Peaches and Cream oatmeal while it’s coagulating in a bowl on a kitchen counter.
The bowl is grey.
The counter is butcher block.
This time of year.
Back on my property, it goes through three phases, that start in my sleep as my head rolls across my pillow:
Phase One is first light; that bit of light that illuminates but lacks color. It brightens up the snow and reminds me of the starkness of winter as it creeps through the trees.
Phase Two is where the colors come out. Pink and Orange. If there’s clouds in the sky, this is where the heavy purples and other spectral wonders sprinkle the landscape. Long and sometimes-swelling lines of color and light, hard-brushed through that section of my sky.
Phase Three of these winter wonders is when the sun finally appears, having crawled up from the river bed, up the walls of the valley – and into view. She’s bright, orange and white, and she splits the sky of color before those colors finally fade.
This all happens over the course of twenty minutes – give or take a few heartbeats – with the final phase lingering with my first morning thoughts.
It starts after the first frost of the last year and ends at the first sign of spring in the new year. I don’t need to set an alarm on these cold and technicolor days.
Phase One taps me on my shoulder in my dreams to let me know that morning has come.
By Phase Two, I’m either up and away and in wonder of it all. Or, letting the dog out; following her in the yard, around the side of the house, to stare and watch as the colors multiply and evolve.
Today the snow is half way up my fuzzy thigh. I wouldn’t regularly allow it up past the cuff of my boots, but today I don’t mind. In fact, today – I don’t think I could avoid it.
We’ve got more standing snow this year than any year in memory.
Phase Three is generally enjoyed with a cup of coffee in hand, as I stare at it through the dying Sawgrass and thriving Miscanthus off the edge of the deck.
I love the way the light fickers off of the spots of frost and gets magnified through the drops of dew on the feather fronds of these itchy plants that never die…
Tan and brittle now – but preserved in space when left to be…
They act as a paint brush in the wind as they disrupt my view of the morning sky.
Winter in Maromas isn’t anything I’ve lived through before.
It makes my mind wander – making me think all the wonderful things..
Which makes my heart beat in sync..
Charting a course to where it needs to be.
Where I need to be.
This is all happens live, at the Lemonade Stand; 06457.