I spent part of yesterday perusing flower catalogues (I think we need some red lilies in the front garden) and sighing over several of Claude Monet's paintings and some actual photographs of his lush gardens in Giverny. I'm longing for "garden weather," but must admit that my spring, summer, and fall gardens wouldn't be nearly as wonderous if they weren't preceded by the stark, snowy landscapes of winter.
There's a metaphor on life in there somewhere, but I'll leave you to work it out on your own because my tea kettle is about to whistle.
Speaking of stark, snowy landscapes, The New Republic published Robert Frost's poem, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," on this day in 1923:
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.