It has been pointed out to me that I should explain the name "Foggygates". The town we live in (Hatfield, just north of Northampton) is in a big bend of the Connecticut River- if the trees and houses on Main Street were not there, you could see the river from our backyard, out across the farmer’s fields. I’ve often said we should name this place Foggygates because almost every morning the fog from the river comes in over the fields, through the patch of woods out back and into the yard. In the Summer it’s cool, but in the middle of the winter that chilly morning fog gets old pretty fast...
The silent winter fog steals in,
River’s breath, the color of gin;
Stealing through the iron branches;
Icy water drip drip drip.
The barn was there,
And now it’s gone;
Smothered, swallowed, by the gauze.
Silvery, silken puffs just linger;
with ice-cold fingers.
Now up above
The sun cracks through,
Shooting golden, molten hues
Cotton ghosts dissolve and flee,
Barn and tree and I are free
To see the last cold fingers die.
the first hawks fly.
Still, even in the dead of Winter, which is where we are right now, there are signs of Spring. It has gotten dark noticeably later the past week or two, and outside the kitchen windows there are swelling buds on the Japanese maples. Can the 4th of July really be all that far away? I suppose it’s time to start planning the garden.