Posted on November 21, 2017
Praise the light of late November,
the thin sunlight that goes deep in the bones.
Praise the crows chattering in the oak trees;
though they are clothed in night, they do not
despair. Praise what little there’s left:
the small boats of milkweed pods, husks, hulls,
shells, the architecture of trees. Praise the meadow
of dried weeds: yarrow, goldenrod, chicory,
the remains of summer. Praise the blue sky
that hasn’t cracked yet. Praise the sun slipping down
behind the beechnuts, praise the quilt of leaves
that covers the grass: Scarlet Oak, Sweet Gum,
Sugar Maple. Though darkness gathers, praise our crazy
fallen world; it’s all we have, and it’s never enough.
~ Barbara Crooker
So where did autumn go? It seems to be slipping quietly by this year. There was a beautiful wedding..but then there was a funeral. The sweet and the bitter.
As I mentioned in my previous post, I am striving for authenticity in my images. This first photo was taken after nights of horrible insomnia..those circular thoughts going around and around in my head. Pushing myself out the door for some long walks in the woods seemed to help (I finally found some trails where hunting is not allowed), exploring and gathering what’s left of autumn, “our crazy fallen world”
There are projects left to finish, a few new ones in the works and a busy holiday season ahead. One day at a time, as they say.
Grateful to have the whole family home soon. I love when the house is full. Will be busy feeding lots of hungry mouths…should sleep well this week.
Wishing all who celebrate, a very Happy Thanksgiving.
Posted on November 4, 2015
In autumn, I write of days smoldering like embers to ash, grass, stiff, green-weary, waiting for somnolent winter, everywhere, gathered birds stuck in spindly branches and gardens done with giving… of air, over-ripe, indolent, like the last great cluster of grapes on the vine, which winds its way across the wall, tendrils turned to wood.
~ Elaine Christensen
Posted on November 30, 2014
Posted on November 17, 2014
It’s noticing that cracks us open, lets something in.
Shows we’re in use.
Right now. Right this minute.
~ Lia Purpura, On Looking
the last survivors of November
the last of the vibrant color
now fading and turning brown
the cold has hit
with a dusting of snow
winter has arrived early this year
time to hibernate
Posted on November 13, 2014
I’ll make a voice like all of time and all of the fog that ever was; I’ll make a voice that is like an empty bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore. I’ll make a sound that’s so alone that no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I’ll make me a sound and an apparatus and they’ll call it a Fog Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life.”
“The Fog Horn blew.”
~ Ray Bradbury, The Fog Horn
on Chestnut Hill Farm