très riches heures III
the month smooths out itself like a hand over a wrinkled cloth, and colours are subtracted one by one. the trees are bare, pale grasses whisper at their feet, the sky is cloud-quilted.
november does all in its power to prevent anyone from perceiving it, with cold that keeps your face lowered to the wind, and with its dim short days. across the bridge of winter november and february press their hands palm to palm with one another, two blank sisters: it would be easy to imagine this time as somewhere to get through on the way to somewhen else.
if you are looking when the light breaks through as it will — if you know how to look — you will see all the different golds that can be contained in dun, or the many blues that grey holds.
it is not a trick of the light.
the reward of careful noticing is seeing. the reward of seeing can be love.