Winter Feast

Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough 
And gathered into barrels. 
He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs. 
Though the branches bend like reeds, Though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkle on the tree, 
He that would eat of love may bear away with him 
Only what his belly can hold, 
Nothing in the apron, 
Nothing in the pockets. 
Never, never may the fruit be gathered from the bough 
And harvested in barrels. 
The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins, 
In an orchard soft with rot.


Never May the Fruit Be Picked, by Edna St. Vincent Millay


Never doubt whether the animals know a thing or two about love.

This photo has the extra benefit of having been taken while on the phone with my mother, telling her about a website where I've been posting one photo a day all year long. 

Otherwise the day was rainy, cold, and rather miserable, compounded by the oppressive gloom of my impending return to work and the weight of all the tasks I never got accomplished over the holidays. 

It wasn't all bad though.