In summer, it’s sunlight that filters in through the knotholes in the wood, breaking between the weather-decayed boards and striping the air within with pale gold like water, greened just slightly by the leaves of trees outside. The light looks motionless, sturdy, impossible to break. But peering closer reveals the dust motes that eddy and swirl, swimming inside this thing that cannot be touched. Even the bars of sunlight are alive.
In winter, it’s snow. It finds a way in through every chink, powders the sill, heaps in miniature drifts beneath the knotholes, shimmers dully in every cobwebbed corner. The empty threads catch snowflakes instead of flies, and this is no less the right way of things. All that was old and decaying seems somehow caught motionless in time. The black shadows of summer turn grey and dim, the yellow sun turns white. The air is more full of light than it ever has been, yet nothing is illuminated any more than before–the shadows have spread like the light, and all glows dimly, evenly, quietly. Snow collects and collects, a heavy memory of summer’s shining dust.
Photographs taken this past December. Better late than never? There is no longer much snow at Home, alas.