When I opened my front door this morning, a frail moon, bandaged in gauze, looked down at me from the cool dark sky. She had the sea like her shadow beneath her, full of secrets, bones. This is what I love about winter - the frailty and feralness. The being wild and slow, old and yet growing lovely buds of dreams. For me, it is a magic that must be written, not photographed, for words are my first love, my heart's native language, the ladder I wove for myself as a child so I could climb out of my private world of enchantment and engage with everyone else (and the way I can return to that world when everyone else exhausts or trammels me.) I'm sure I will return to the observational art of photography in spring, when the flowers open.