To whom are we beautiful as we go?
Seasonal amnesia. All this unseasonable weather lulls me into a sense of suspended summer; so when I hear a roar (was it yesterday morning or the day before) moving through, what? the trees? down the mountain? across the land? in the sky? What was it–A truck? A plane? An invasion of some kind?
Oh, right, that’s the sound of wind, a Winter Wind.
Summer brings me to the water and into the garden, while Autumn invites me into the woods, and onto the paths that wind in the afternoon light–the crunch of leaves, the pine needle carpet, the fallen birch tree–until I arrive back at the house, with a stop at the wood shed to add my labor to the stacking–an overwhelming prospect at first–until the rhythm of wood upon wood finds me, and the pleasure of order and reward has its way, so that when I step back I am surprised and sweetly satisfied that my effort lent one more row to warmth this winter while the pile in the driveway is that much smaller.
Shut down the water to the outdoor shower & tub.
The wheel turns.
the frost is heavy. the sun barely over the trees. the house cold. the woodstove ready, but not yet lit this year. i watch the icy crystals begin their surrender to the day. a greening circle around the fire pit (though it hasn’t been used in weeks.)
is there memory of heat? of communion? of love?
if my son was here, he’d explain it, scientifically–why that particular spot warms first, but i prefer to imagine something greater than understanding, like the way this circle of green in a sea of white suspends my attention as i hurry through the morning routine…
welcome back squash & soup & socks
Once upon a time Casey & I were the types to come to New England on long weekends like this one. Leaf Peepers, you called us. We wore wool and sipped cider and gushed at pumpkins on farms and gasped at colors on hillsides. We’d return from our jaunts in Vermont to spend afternoons in the backyard of Casey’s grandmother’s house–in the Berkshires–gazing at Ceil Mente’s blazing Maple and beyond that, the ever-compelling presence of Mount Greylock.
At the Jersey shore, we had to chase after fall–at craft shows and historical villages and wishing we could wear sweater–but here, Autumn was in our laps.
How many times might we make one last stop for ice cream–because the weather is so unseasonably warm…