The frost is painting again.

Tavaron writes:

Some pictures I made this morning after being woken by the baby. The sun was just out and had not yet melted the frost from the night. I really liked the patterns and the colors of the leaves.

We like them, too. They remind us of this:

This is the garden. Time shall surely reap

and on Death’s blade lie many a flower curled,

in other lands where other songs be sung;

yet stand They here enraptured, as among

the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep

some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

e.e. cummings

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Tavaron

21.11.16 Front Page

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