I love how the gray, cold, slush of the season pushes poets and artists (and really everyone) to hibernate and perculate thoughts and artistic brainpower. I will never forget those countless freezing cold months of winter in New Hampshire during college. I would sit in my little studio, with the wood stove roaring and my hands freezing, making pot after pot on the wheel. Desperately trying to get it right and warm myself with the beauty of the art forming in front of me.
So here I go, off to the studio and taking with me two pieces of inspiration. One, this photograph from a lovely holiday store
Jennifer Causey Photograph
And two, some Robert Frost. Because who better to talk about winter with?
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.