in with the mail

Perhaps etherghost's yard is my muse. I do love the wildness, the abandon, the tenacity it exudes even in this season of winter. I took some branches from there today and brought them in with the mail.

Every winter,
When the great sun has turned his face away,
The earth goes down into a vale of grief,
And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables,
Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay -
Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses.

Charles Kingsley