The winter sun displays the imprints of my summer garden. It’s telling me to plant there again next spring. I’ve already planted my garlic bulbs beneath the snow between the birch and the cedars. Behind the cedars the frogs have buried themselves in the muddy floor of the ditch. They will sing for me again once the sun awakens them.
I think of all the seeds I’ve saved from last summer’s harvest and I control my urge to plant them now. The winter sun streaming thru my front window would gladly lure them out of their cosy peat pots. If the premature seedlings stretch towards the sun, it will be their downfall. By the time spring comes along they’d be too tall and spindly, too weak to survive the blaring summer rays. I must control my urge to create new life and respect the moon cycles.