Read by Matilda Longbottom

January settles over the world like a heavy wool blanket, muffling sound and slowing time. This morning, the snow is falling again in that steady, unbothered way that makes everything feel suspended—gentle, quiet, and somehow expectant. I stand at the window, my hands curved around a mug warm enough to soothe my fingers, and watch as the flakes lazily drift toward the ground. Each one seems to have its own idea of where to land, wandering left, then right, before finally coming to rest on the sleeping garden.

The raised beds lie hidden beneath soft, white humps. The trellis leans forward as though trying to peer beneath the snow to check on things. My garden paths have disappeared altogether, swallowed in pale drifts. It’s a landscape transformed, but one I’ve come to love. Winter gives the garden a chance to rest, and it gives me a chance to reflect. Still, as I watch the snow collecting along the window ledge, I feel a familiar tug—a quiet ache for green things, for sun-warmed dirt, for the brilliant chaos of Spring.

I rest my forehead lightly against the cold glass, and my breath fogs a little oval in front of me. Through that tiny portal, my imagination fills the garden with life. I picture myself kneeling in the soil on that first truly warm day, peeling back the Winter mulch and smelling the rich, damp earth beneath it. There is nothing in the world quite like that scent: the sweet, loamy signal that everything is waking up.

In my mind, I run my fingers through the soil, letting it crumble freely, letting the chill of early Spring give way to warmth as the sun climbs higher. I imagine dropping pea seeds one by one into their little trenches, each seed a promise, each promise a small leap of faith. I see the radishes pushing up first, bold and rosy. Lettuce appears next, green and delicate as butterfly wings. I can almost hear the soft rustle of leaves stirring in the April breeze.

And the daydream doesn’t stop there. It rarely does. I picture the garden as it will look in early Summer—zucchini blossoms glowing golden at sunrise, tomatoes hanging heavy on the vine, basil flooding the air with its sweet, peppery scent. I see bee after bee lazily drifting between blossoms, as if intoxicated by the simple joy of being alive. It’s a world I know by heart, one that grows more vivid with every snowfall.

A cardinal flutters onto the fence, shaking loose a small puff of snow as he lands. His red feathers are brilliant against the white landscape, a little reminder that not everything sleeps through Winter. He cocks his head at me, fearless and curious. Perhaps he, too, is dreaming of brighter days. His presence feels like a small reassurance, a spark of certainty that color always returns.

I take a slow sip from my mug, letting the warmth settle into me. January can be long—longer than we’d sometimes like—but it is also a month of quiet miracles. Underneath the frozen soil, the roots remember. The bulbs remember. The earth remembers. Everything is preparing in its own secret way for what comes next.

The snow continues its soft descent, steady and purposeful. And here at the window, wrapped in stillness, I let my dreams wander freely toward Spring. It feels good to imagine the planting, the tending, the growing. It feels good to trust that soon enough the garden will burst back into life, surprising me even though I’ve been waiting for it.

Winter will pass. It always does. And when the thaw comes and the robins return and the beds reappear under the sun, I’ll step outside with seeds in my pocket and hope in my heart. I’ll kneel in the soil that has been patiently holding its breath, and I’ll begin again—because that is the gift of gardening. It teaches us that dormancy isn’t the end. It’s the quiet before the most welcome beginning. ❖