In the reversed garden of the Empress, once ordered rows of herbs and wheat now give way to a wild, encroaching tangle. Nothing is pruned, nothing gathered. The trellis slumps under the weight of overripe gourds, their vines knotting through the slats. The orchard's fruit falls unseen, bruising into the soft soil, while the old grain bin sits mute by the fence, its frame gaping where planks have shrunk and warped. In the afternoon hush, the silence is thick, broken only by the dull creak of the swing suspended from a rafter beam—its seat roughly planed, darkened by years of rain and idle hands.
At one time, such beams—hewn from trees in the heart of the forest—formed the skeletons of barn and home alike. Master carpenters prized their density and resilience, working each length with an adze until the surface shone with the mark of labor. In colder months, families gathered around tables shaped from these same trunks, the surface grooved by the press of plates and the spill of cider. The wood, cut and seasoned, held the memory of summer storms and winter's hush, the knots and scars speaking to storms weathered and shelter given. Yet now, the rafters sag and doors hang uneven, the work of care untended as the seasons turn over.
The stories passed down in mountain towns tell of a time when the first houses rose, made from sturdy logs dragged down muddy roads on ox-drawn sleds. Such timber, chosen for its strength, protected the family from biting wind and lowering clouds. When times were lean, the kitchen bench doubled as worktable and altar, bearing the weight of flour sacks and the daily loaf, its surface scuffed by knife and chisel. In the lean years, barrels made from the same wood stored beans, lentils, and hope. But when the Empress's bounty is neglected, these vessels stand empty, the tight hoops slipping loose as the air grows heavy and damp.
Outside, the weather changes. A dry wind moves through the abandoned shed, rustling the wood shavings that litter the floor. The workbench, its corners rounded by years, is quiet. The mallet and wedge, tools of transformation, rest where they were last set down. The old breadboard leans against the wall, its surface marked by hundreds of quiet evenings, awaiting the press of kneading palms. In the stillness, the bones of home—doorframes, chairs, the rim of the well bucket—all wait for renewal, their stories paused.
There are small gestures that may begin to turn the season. One might gather the wood shavings and set them as kindling beneath the hearth, coaxing warmth back into the house. Another could tighten the iron straps around the grain bin, readying it for plenty yet to come. The empty barrels can be wiped clean and set upright near the door, a sign of readiness for harvest. Running a hand along the old breadboard, sanding away the roughness, recalls the taste of shared bread and the promise that the table is never truly abandoned.
Today's lucky color is BurlyWood.
Lucky Color: BurlyWood — #DEB887A steady hand restores what neglect has softened.