"That grand old poem called Winter"

Watercolor - © A. Rutherford

            

This morning I woke up "smack-dab" in the middle of another Robert Frost poem . . .

"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." 
-   Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Henry David Thoreau was right to call Winter that "grand old poem."   The fairy land outside my window today is poetic indeed.

But the Beauty of winter comes in many forms.  Not just the fairy forms outside my window, there is Beauty in the bleakness of a frozen wetland area, if we allow ourselves to attend to its special quality.

As Mrs. William Starr Dana, an American botanist (1861–1952) explains:

"An important part in the winter landscape is played by the dead grasses and other herbaceous plants, especially by various members of the composite family, such as the asters, golden rods, and sunflowers.  Wreathed in snow or encased in ice, they present a singularly graceful and fantastic appearance.  Or perhaps, the slender stalks and branches armed with naked seed pods trace intricate and delicate shadows on the smooth snow."

My brother, who is a professional photographer, found this bleak beauty in a recent visit to a local wetland area.  In the summer it is an area of isolated but lush beauty with acres and acres of water lotus blooming and large fields of naturalized sunflowers whose seeds feed the flocks of red-winged blackbirds and other fowl.

© Greg Ferrell
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