My new painter eyes are awakening to the subtle beauties this time of year has to offer. Never before have I noticed all the dried grasses poking up through mud and snow. Nor the heavy sunflowers hanging by their last thread, weighed down by seeds for next year, food for birds.
Against the flat blue sky, taller than me, one quiet sunflower, like an old man who’s time is nearly gone, standing tall in overcoat, gaunt face, cane in hand. Proud. Fierce spirit. Energy waning.
That was in my neighbor’s yard. They are everywhere. All sprouted from one little envelope of seeds Chente and I spread three years ago.
In back, in front, small, large. All the golden brown.
This one, in the front, heavy head hangs down. Hundreds of seeds still intact. The rest sprinkle the long gone garden, white and sun bleached.
I sit like a kook in the dirt, painting, noticing. What at first appears brown is actually red, purple yellow. It’s twists and breaks and movements worth noticing.
The world is limited in color, lifeless in the in between season. Waiting, dormant, beneath sparkling snow that will creep down the mountains and cover our valleys. Utterly still before life bursts forth again.
What glory that will be.