With a determined tug, a fallen, aging tree at the edge of the pasture gave up some of itself. A burly, bowl-shape piece with gnarled swirls and craggy clefts, it was perfect for what I had in mind. Then, near the frosty river, I found bright green moss, growing like nobody said it was winter. I peeled it off cold stone as if I were peeling an orange. I looked close; there, in my hands was a diorama of a tiny forest.
This is foraging in January.
Two foraged things, just two, I carted back inside, back to the work table. Back to where the tulips bloomed. Bulbs, forced last fall, tricked into thinking it's already spring, were blooming wild. When two elements out of three really are from the wild, and the third acting like it is, I'd say that's forager's success. Put together, they become something of mid-winter with a touch of spring. It's no wonder, then, when there are words like quiet, contemplative, serene, pure, hopeful, and new falling down all around them.
Would you like to make something similar?
For the container, use anything that has a trough to its shape.
Line it with black plastic and add a layer of moistened potting soil. Take your blooming bulbs from their pots, let much of the soil fall away from the roots, and plant them into their new space, firming the soil around their bases to secure. (Didn't force any bulbs of your own this year? No worries. Most grocery markets are selling pots of them right about now.) Draw up the edges of the black plastic to corral the soil, then cover the soil and plastic with a layer of moistened moss.*
Water every few days to keep soil moist.