December 1st brought fog to our corner of Nordamerica. And when the temperatures drop below freezing and there is only a minimum of wind, fog means hore frost which is spelled fragile and beautiful.
cottonwoods, elms, and ash that shade our lanes in green summer turn
into a wonderland of rich fringed patterns of white against the stark
grey of the foggy skies; spectral in the most beautiful sense.
of me wants to reach up and shake the tiny tendrils; part of me stands
in awe and admires the beauty that the cold has manifested for us to
enjoy in the few hours of daylight that are left us this time of year.
is the packed slippery ice of the street pushed into rows by the tires
of the vehicles that daily ply our town and above is filigree, an
imaginary world of tiny perfect patterns.
It is a miracle for me
who at twenty fled the northern tier of Nordamerica to escape the
humidity of summer and the snows of winter. To have returned to enjoy
the effects of below freezing temperatures has been a gift to that part
of myself that loves beauty — all sorts of beauty.