Have begun sowing seeds for the growing season to come. Gradually, the presence of the Winter Solstice wanes. The waking hours grow longer — the daylight stretching out its reach.

And it does feel stretched out. Thin and membranous. Sometimes bright and crystalline, sometimes muddy and washed out, but always only half-there.

The sun still sits low in the sky — rarely rising above the treetops. So it's more like a memory of daylight, recalled far too often. Like the events of childhood or the encounters of only yesterday, the details are foggy and merged in on themselves. Although we swear we remember them correctly, we alter them with each attempt to grasp them. In our efforts to hold onto a foundation of memory, we twist the past into something new.

This is how the long Summer days feel at the edges of Winter. Broken recollections of folk tales — speculative ideals of place and self and nature — whispered in the mind.

And yet, the food must be prepared. The harvest beckons.