Winter Garden Bleak November washes the last leaves from the Pin Oak, tosses the last of the acorns down the graveled drive. Low and leaden clouds dim the light to submarine gray. Fingers restless, my workbasket near, I crave growing a new garden of patches. November bears down. Muttering wind spits sleet at the windows. I spread fabrics across my table, jeweled jams and jellies, taste and savor them with my fingers. Plucking and trimming, knotting and tying, the cotton garden blooms, spills out of my lap, basks in the fireglow, a genetic impulse to seek light. My plot for the winter, the patch garden grows, gathered and bound, becomes sustenance against the cold. —Jane Hicks 63 ...