toward winter

hike

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AFTER THANKSGIVING

Lord, as Rilke says, the year bears down toward winter, past
the purification of the trees, the darkened brook.
Only 4:45, and the sky’s sheer black
clasps two clear planets and a skinny moon
as we drive quietly home from the airport,
the last kid gone.

The time of preparation’s over, the time of
harvesting the seed, the husk, the kernel, saving
what can be saved – weaves of sun like
rags of old flannel, provident peach stones,
pies, pickles, berry wines to
hold the sweetness for a few more months.

Now the mountains will settle into their old
cold habits, now the white
birch bones will rise
like all those thoughts we’ve tried to repress:
madness of the solstice, phosphorescent
logic that rules the fifteen-hour night!

Our children, gorged, encouraged, have taken off
in tiny shuddering planes. Plump with stuffing,
we too hurry away, holding hands, holding on.
Soon it’ll be January, soon snow will
shuffle down, cold feathers, swathing us in
inches of white silence –

and the ways of the ice
will be narrow, delicate.
~ Sandra M. Gilbert

then and now

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the colors seem to soften before turning all brown and rust
and then the final fall.

I will be posting a bit less now as the holidays approach. I just want to thank you for all your visits and for your wonderful support here, so very appreciated.

 Wishing you all a wonderful weekend!

 

the golden hour

 

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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

the odd uneven time

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“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.”
~ Sylvia Plath

the road to spring

the yellow line

sprout

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a sunrise spin

there are signs

April's promise

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7 PM

I believe we have finally reached our destination.

more to come!