The earth becomes painted in the nostalgic light of endless sunsets.

Even the garden bulbs are typical Wisconsinites.  Temperatures get into the forties and they’re out baring it all ready for the heat wave about to hit.  I envy their ambition to get a jump on the growing season but at the same time pity their lack of foresight.  Winter has yet to shed her garments and welcome a sustained warm spell.  If only they got the memo.

The morning of heavy fog and freezing temps left a blanket of thin frost over everything it came into contact with.  Most notably, the fingers of this blog’s author.  Frozen into inaction.  Hence the excuse of being ten plus days behind on 365 postings.

Waiting for the clock to strike.

January has come and gone.  Her pleas unheard and largely ignored.  “If only I was a bit warmer they’d love me,” she ponders in desperation as her frozen tears melt in February’s unseasonable weather.

Like a defeated army on the battlefield winter waves its white flag, tucks tail, and runs.  Enough forty degree days in January will do that to you.

Sitting patiently waiting for time to pass.  Life on a garage shelf is a far cry from the grass on the field and the clay ridden soil around the bases.  The company of nails, screws, and nick-knacks only intensify the longing for a throne on the mound and the feel of leather against the skin.

It’s not enough that our calendars laugh in our face when we ask, “Is January already over?”  We look at our daily schedules wondering where the days went.  We couldn’t have lost that much time hibernating this year.  The birds have begun to sing and the landscape melts before our eyes.

It’s reflected in all we say, how we think, and our daily actions.

I’m left to wonder what function does a dilapidated barn serve.  Does it house the old and decrepit livestock waiting to die?  Perhaps its a sanctuary for all types of rodentia and feral felines during the harsh winter months.