Where did the color go?
I too feel washed something other than clean, not rinsed and wrung either. Just a winter wan.
If I kick about my ankles, time is not spooled like silk. Rather it is turning around me as a cotton batt tornado.
Silent and the birds have stopped singing as if I were in the eye.
Luckily there is touch. And texture.
Running my fingers over a bit of bark or a gold-rimmed coffee cup heats the tips with sparks of blue, green, gold…
I lean towards the warmth and am pulled forward into the ticking minutes…
…and further down the wide if barren path…
…slow as breathing towards something resembling Spring.
Merci, Francine. I remember that you love winter here. Are you coming to the deballages next month?
Beautiful post… I long for the greys of provence
I love that Suze. Thank you for the insta-smile.
Such a wonderful compliment coming from you. One who knows a thing or three about sensuality!
Merci, Judith, for this and for your beautiful post today.
Thank you my friends. And luckily within our hearts we have something far gentler than winter.
'If I kick about my ankles, time is not spooled like silk. Rather it is turning around me as a cotton batt tornado.'
Yes!
Btw, you remind me of her.
Oh, this is pure sensuality, Heather. Your words alone would do it. The stunning photos are frosting on this luscious cake.
Breathtaking.
Hello Heather:
There is something wonderfully poetic about these words where you capture that sense of isolation of self within a landscape devoid of warmth and colour which is, of course, the very essence of winter at its heart.