In winter, the bones of the landscape are more visible, prominently displayed in lieu of bright blooms and lush foliage. Textures and dark hues dazzle the forest, and what is hidden in other seasons is more conspicuous.
The harborages, dens, burrows of the inhabitants of the wood are there in the tree trunk and the forest floor. What could be finding home here in a tree?
Or snuggled up inside this log, veiled by leaves, moss, and forest debris?
A few years ago, a fox used this den and raised some kits. No foxes have been here since. Is it abandoned or has a groundhog taken up residence?
Some of the dying branches relinquish their bark as if to release the latches on an old cage door.
The elders here stand tall and proud, displaying their deeply grooved wrinkles as an emblem of honor and endurance.
And others stand tall in the light of the sun, their mass beguiled and broken by age, rain, and wind.
The youth of a tree at the edge of the wood opens its jacket to embrace the elements.
Its layered veneer curling and peeling to reveal the smooth and soft heart of innocence.
As the end of the day nears and the sun flashes its last ray, the reflections of elegance in Timber Grove softly bid good night.
I will be joining This Grandmother's Garden for Walk in the Garden.
© copyright 2012 Michelle A. Potter