Saturday, November 16, 2013
For the Love of Finter
For some it is the promise of spring, for others the warmth of summer but for me it is Finter.
I adore Finter.
For your less informed readers, Finter is the very brief sprinkle of time between Fall and Winter. The time where the earth is till warm but the sky is ice cold. The time where the grass is still green but the leaves have crashed to their brittle deaths. The time where all color is washed away but in its place...Texture. It is a time of hours, not weeks or even days.
Finter is for poets, most specifically Irish poets who latch onto sadness and despair with the strength of a mule.
Today while walking with my husband, a good but simple man who believes there are but just four season in a year, I was struck full in the face with the sight of Finter in full bloom. Brown grasses, partially opened milk weed pods, peeling bark of the birch, the aroma of rotting apples under my boots, all in one piece of soon to be inhabited land.
Below you will note a simple Finter bouquet . As fragile as the season it illustrates, this Finter gathering of most nearly dead botanical offerings, will most likely fall apart some time during the night. The leaves will separate from their limbs, the flowers will fall onto the table and the silk of the milkweed will likely be eaten by the cat who will gag it up unceremoniously onto our carpet.
The most wondrous time of the year