It is February and the forest still sleeps. We were given an unseasonable warm weekend, so the fella and I flew to the forest to listen for stirrings. It was mostly quiet, save for the drip-plop of melting snow and the susurrus of the last yearβs birch leaves clinging to branches.
The trees cast hard, blue outlines on the snow, but even the shade felt warm to us. We left the path to trudge through unblemished snow to the top of a ghyll where we could rest and observe. I rummaged through my coat pockets for the little boxes I always carry for when I find delicate treasures, such as broken bird shells or the tiniest of flowers, and found a forgotten amethyst that I must have absentmindedly walked out the door with one day.
We lifted rotten bark and peered in leaf-lined burrows at the bottoms of trees to see if we were the only ones fooled by the false-spring.
As the fella perched on a fallen tree content with solitude and a botanical identification guide, I could feel my husk begin to crack open in the dappled light. But it is too soon.
Just as the fella is whispering to his beloved trilliums to stay encased in earth for a little while longer, I know that hibernation is not over for me either. It is too soon for the aesthetic of my work to shift to the pastel flower buds of rose quartz and fresh green aventurine.
It is early yet for spring, but she is waiting around the corner, friends. Until then, I will continue to pull from the scenes outside my window and live in dendritic agate landscapes. I will breathe in the frost and exhale it into the cracks of deep blue labradorites.
For a time yet, you will find this aesthetic in my Etsy shop (where I am keeping most of my treasures, at the moment), until it is put away until next year.
