Tagged: obiterphotos

Often, I find, there is more beauty in the things that are fleeting than the things that have substance and staying power. That certain things end and return, end and return, is always a source of awe and amazement. The wheel of seasons, the crisp outline of sun on snow, the fragile tissue-thin pattern of a lacewing’s wing, the blaze of glory in a winter sunset sky, the new green of spring buds, the glad flash of color before the fall. Every season breathes a renewed sense of circularity through me, I breathe it in and let it out again,

Lo. sifted through the winds that blow, Down comes the soft and silent snow, White petals from the flowers that grow In the cold atmosphere.* It’s snowing and blowing like crazy. All day long the flags have been overworked, stretched out to their snapping points, straining in the stiff breeze, ends fraying. This snow is so different from the last stuff we had. Then it was fat and wet and lazy and perfect for packing. This is more like diamond dust. It’s dry and granular and it blows up against everything in great drifts and piles and ridges of frozen...

It’s the epitome of a winter wonderland here. We’ve had snow, fat and flurrious, white and wondrous, softly falling, whipping sideways, whiteout sifting, all day. Sometime around midday, I heard the thunk and swoop of the shovel; Anders was out futilely clearing the driveway as the flakes floated down around him softly and quickly re-coating everything. The kids bundled up and took off like rockets into the snow. I had been admiring the pristine…and trackless…vistas from the window and was suddenly jolted from my reverie by the knowledge that every soft white surface would shortly be a churned and stomped...

The winter sun shines so brightly you almost think you need sunglasses when you head out the door, camera in hand, 3 small child satellites revolving around you with crazy orbits. Head into the sun, keep your eyes open. You might think it’s all dead and brown, but you’d be wrong. Tiny pine cones, bright red berries, curlique teasel, fluff-headed winter grasses, a coat of ground frost, the sun in your eyes. The children run before you, laughing in the sunshine. They stop and wait and wonder why you’re taking pictures of that dead plant, those trees against the sky,...