Winter looks still here, but it isn't. The poem begins underground, where mycelium, bulbs, and the roots of chrysanthemum and rose are busy "knitting" a fabric out of sight. Above, the February landscape is a collage of branches and clouds, with one bright splash of jay-blue breaking through the grey and white.
The last two lines turn to the speaker's own life: "We stay secluded, painting / our lives with aplomb." The "we" is never explained, but the title suggests an artist's studio, so the judgment that these people are artists seems fair. The comparison is gentle. Like the earth, they work quietly, out of public view, and the words "knits," "collage," and "painting" make nature and art seem like the same activity.
The mood is calm, patient, and quietly confident. The speaker doesn't sound lonely or restless in seclusion. Instead, the retreat feels productive, as if the coming spring is already being made.