In winter, the sun hangs low in the sky; it streams into the house, reaching corners that the high sun of summer never touches. It is compensation for the freezing temperatures and the short days. Shadows become as dense as objects, as though a clear illustration of Plato's Cave.
Here is the original of that shadow: some lilacs from last spring, their dried heads arced downwards.
The morning sun picks out tiny details of goldenrod seed heads.
A hanging bunch of marjoram is echoed in its shadow.
The objects on my shelves glow in the brief illumination of morning.
And a cup emerges from the dark.
A gilded pear in a brass bowl becomes a mystery.
Shadows create geometries, of windows....
....of a ladder back chair.
Out of doors, the morning shadows are bright blue under a blue sky, the mountains of snow repeating the dark mountains in the distance. The brilliant sunlight is a gift in a winter of endless gray.