Frost

This tidy remnant of the Dahlia garden is all that remained the day after I shot the flower photos below. We'd had our first frost and the insects that had loved the flowers as I, through late summer - we're hanging on among the frosty crystal.



One passes through the roses to get to the Dahlias.











The crystals were just melting from his fuzzy head. (Do click)






So as winter approaches - I'll find a perch to soak up some sun.




And though I may feel a bit like Miss Havershram looks.





I'll be hanging on.


And making little offerings to the bird gods. (Our newly arrived Red-breasted Nuthatches)



And as always - Looking Up.


Heading into November one can't help observing the little deaths as the sun moves south. Still, there's beauty in these departures.


Emily Dickinson wrote this poem about frost. It's an 'ouch' poem.

Apparently with no surprise,
To any happy flower,
The frost beheads it at its play,
In accidental power.
The blond assassin passes on.
The sun proceeds unmoved,
To measure off another day,
For an approving God.

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