The long cold drags on. We were warned. I read in the paper last summer that we were in a La Nina cycle, which would mean long cold spells and little snow. Here in the Interior, we’ve missed the 18 feet of snow they’ve had in Cordova on the coast. What we get is the fine, dry stuff, the moisture freezing out of the air and falling in a thick mist over the backs of horses, fenceposts, car windshields and anything else that’s out there.
But it’s warmed a bit and today I spent a couple of hours raking and shoveling manure out of the corral, stockpiling for the summer’s compost. And the light lingers longer, too, well past 4pm; after all, we’re a month past solstice, the darkest day of the year. And I’ve already looked at seed catalogs online–tomatoes so plump and red, the lovely ruffles of mesclun lettuce–and I’m studying plans for swallow boxes to go up on the hill behind the house. A little fantasy vacation to the summer to come.
It will be cold again this week–40 below at night–and the blankets are airing out, ready to go back on the horses. We have plenty of chocolate and split birch wood.
So here’s the challenge: write about the days ahead, referring to the details of the day you’re in. What is in flux? What red tomato image holds you steady through this post-solstice time. Use a vegetable in the poem.
————————
Karen from KD’s Bookblog sent this:
Trimming Leeks
Goodness lies
in cutting away
leathery greens,
lopping off rootlets
like idle talk.
What’s left recalls
a roll of white paper.
The leek master
chops it, wilts it
in sizzling butter. Adds
broth, slivered potato, cream.
Purees, seasons, serves
her soup with thick slices
of sourdough.
The empty bowl
cradles the spoon and
a whisper of lost parts.
In the dark kitchen
discarded stems
decay like new bones
in an old casket.
Tags: 40 below, dreams, garden, solstice, winter, writing, writing prompt
Mattie's Pillow 
January 26, 2012 at 4:37 pm
Great prompt. I plan to start on it with my morning pages tomorrow. Thanks for posting it.
January 29, 2012 at 4:20 am
Trimming Leeks
Goodness lies
in cutting away
leathery greens,
lopping off rootlets
like idle talk.
What’s left recalls
a roll of white paper.
The leek master
chops it, wilts it
in sizzling butter. Adds
broth, slivered potato, cream.
Purees, seasons, serves
her soup with thick slices
of sourdough.
The empty bowl
cradles the spoon and
a whisper of lost parts.
In the dark kitchen
discarded stems
decay like new bones
in an old casket.
January 29, 2012 at 2:50 pm
Thanks, Karen–Lovely to think of soup now that it’s 50 below here!
I’ll add the poem to the post.