The garden like your garden if in the UK has been blasted by the east wind (given a name which I will not repeat) it has frozen and gutted the Yucca its spikes flattened.
No shelter since the hedge that protected it was dug up by me the week before. I stole its chance to survive. Fleece yes fleece I know - but being a non fleecy gardener there was no fleece.
The wind with no name has blown bare the beech hedge of its clinging leaves. It dislodged my tinplate spiral throwing it discus - like into the middle of the garden.
Spring has been arrested
Put in gaol
A prison of cold soil - a cold soft surface mush with hard iron below
Now in between two seasons
Winter not wanting Spring to have its head
The heads of lenten roses bow to the ground
Leaves splayed as though in abeyance
No sap - no life blood - no energy to flow
It cuts back
Fights to keep its grip
But it will loosen when the hand of God allows it
Who is God you may ask -
Is it he who builds towers, engines, empires ?
Is it the collective will of industrious humankind, consumer and despoiler ?
Not much of a god then.
Climate ? That god manipulated by humankind - perhaps it has hands.
How greater than any god - who with a mean mind nips the bud of our superior knowledge.
Winter cuts back our enthusiasm
Lays waste our fragile lives
Imagine if we had another Ice Age
Such temperate creatures are not invincible.