golden hour of the clock of the year

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and now it’s October
the golden hour of the clock of the year. Everything that can run
to fruit has already done so: round apples, oval plums, bottom-heavy
pears, black walnuts and hickory nuts annealed in their shells,
the woodchuck with his overcoat of fat. Flowers that were once bright
as a box of crayons are now seed heads and thistle down. All the feathery
grasses shine in the slanted light. It’s time to bring in the lawn chairs
and wind chimes, time to draw the drapes against the wind, time to hunker
down. Summer’s fruits are preserved in syrup, but nothing can stopper time.
No way to seal it in wax or amber; it slides though our hands like a rope
of silk. At night, the moon’s restless searchlight sweeps across the sky.

 

~ Barbara Crooker

 

 

 

 

 

 

greetings and salutations

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And here we are at Friday already
Almost the end of October
Halloween next weekend…and daylight savings means much shorter days
Oy!

My Ohio son is coming home for the weekend
to attend a friend’s wedding
talk about time passing..
you know you’re getting old when your kid’s friends start getting married!

Happy weekend, everyone..enjoy every minute!

October road

october road-october road2

Happy weekend, everyone!

stay where you are

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O Stay where you are! Here
in the uncertain hour of a late afternoon
looking outward and looking in
I see this beauty
all I see is beauty.
Something that convinces, asks to be seen,
though it does nothing, just stays where it is,
and merely by existing wins me over.

~ Patrizia Cavalli

one last look at the autumn flowers
a hard frost is on it’s way

the golden hour

 

21677911849_9dd0ba0427_oOctober gold

the golden hour of the clock of the year. Everything that can run
to fruit has already done so: round apples, oval plums, bottom-heavy
pears, black walnuts and hickory nuts annealed in their shells,
the woodchuck with his overcoat of fat. Flowers that were once bright
as a box of crayons are now seed heads and thistle down. All the feathery
grasses shine in the slanted light. It’s time to bring in the lawn chairs
and wind chimes, time to draw the drapes against the wind, time to hunker
down. Summer’s fruits are preserved in syrup, but nothing can stopper time.
No way to seal it in wax or amber; it slides though our hands like a rope
of silk. At night, the moon’s restless searchlight sweeps across the sky.

~ Barbara Crooker
Small Rain
writer’s almanac