It is in the moments just after the dead of winter, that the toes of spring start wriggling. There is one night of death after dying and then there is a while of becoming before the green shoots of life start poking their heads out of the soil. I and my lover took a long wandering walk through the forest yesterday winding with the abundant rushing stream of snow melt, brushing away budding branches and carving a path that was all but ice a week ago. Many of the trees had dropped branches and they had been sitting in the moisture waiting and becoming supple. This catcher, is a reminder of days to come, in the spring flowers should be tied to it's fringe and on the following winter solstice they should be burned.

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