Just One More Time

Early Autumn thunder,

The thinning tree leaves let it in.

Their resistance is weaker, less resilient.

They nod their heads in confusion and look to each other for explanation as

Thunder rocks their roots and

Lightening sparkles in the air around them.

It is an unusual storm for Autumn as it

Comes in on strong northwest winds with the violence of a humid August storm,

As if needing to prove its might just one more time before

Winter’s cold takes its strength away.

Each season’s change is a mix of the one before and the one to come.

No wonder the trees look confused.

Between Seasons

The forest is different now,

Everything has changed.

The sky’s blue is colder,

The north wind is stronger, and

The trees’ summer green has faded.

Their leaves, lighter green now, are studded with hints of red and gold, brown and yellow.

My garden plants are lying over

As if to say “enough”.

They are entitled, they have given me all they can.

But nasturtiums, marigolds and impatients are troopers and refuse to let go.

They will stay strong until the frost’s icy fingers drag them down to rejoin the earth and sleep.

Summer’ song birds have long since flown away, and in their absence

All I hear are the crickets and the crows.

Autumn evenings are chilly and quiet, the silence broken by the occasional lonely bark of a fox and the haunting calls of the owls.

Heavy wind chimes hanging in my forest have been silent all summer but

Now sing with the strength of autumn winds while thistle down floats by in layers of life to be.

This season between the seasons is one of slow change but with an inevitable end.

There is no turning back, no chance to stay and nowhere else to go.

But in spite of this certainty, there is no turmoil, no angst or resistance among the trees and flowers for they know

This is how it should be, how it must be,

How it has always been.

One season losing its grip and

Sliding gently into the next.

Good Enough

I can’t get to it all,

But its good enough.

I can accept that now.

The urgency for more is gone.

My time is well spent, and it is enough.

Less means more.

More time for each one,

Each bean, each tomato, each seed.

The rows welcome me to the garden

Each day filled with goodness and grace.

Jars, 6 at a time with more tomorrow, gleam on the kitchen counter.

I savor the moments of steaming pots and boiling beets.

Summer heart shared with fogged windows and pinging jar seals.

It is more than good enough.

Summer Sweet

Mist clings to the clover

And rolls as breath among the gardens.

On sultry summer mornings,

The air is perfumed with the essence of savory herbs and

Delights the senses of the trees.

Heavy air holds the flavor of flowers and

Slips in silence over webs woven between blades of grass in midnight’s darkness.

Hay fields stir, awakened by the morning’s sun warmed breezes and

Another summer day begins.

August

August, a month of

Heavy air, morning mists and summer’s last hurrah.

Its sultry nights are drenched in humid air and thunder

With light shows between the clouds at midnight and

Rain hissing in the dark on the forest green.

Late summer dawns are still and thick and hang over

Flowers spent and gardens full.

In late August the earth speaks to me in fruits and vegetables,

Hay fields and corn rows, empty fields and full root cellars,

Reminding me that Summer’s end is near.

Silver Smoke

Bright blue sky holds the

Silver gray smoke from the chimney.

 

Golden leaves fall in

Showers from the trees and

 

Dry brown leaves dance with each other in circles

On faded green grass.

 

I sit here alone, watching, smelling, seeing and smiling.

A gray squirrel chatters at me from the edge of the forest, what is he saying?

 

The day is getting late and my house now sits in the shadows.

With the sun in my face, I can barely make it out.

 

It’s as if it has blended back into the woods

From which it was made.

 

All that remains is the red chimney, the silver smoke

And the chatterind squirrel.

 

My place in all of this is erased, and unneeded, it will all carry on without me.

The petunias continue to climb over the iron rooster’s back in defiance of my will,

 

Or what they perceive to be my will.

 

I think I’ll go inside now and make more silver smoke.

 

Harvest

Pumpkins roasting in the oven,

Canning jars full of summer bounty drying on the counter.

Carrots and beets are waiting in the cottage garden, waiting to be pulled and washed,

Blanched and put to rest in the freezer.

Summer’s tender fruits have come and gone.

Only the hardy and hardest of all remain.

The winter squash takes the place of its summer

Thin skinned cousins.

Hard beets, potatoes, and turnips

Wait to be dug and stored in the cellar.

Apples shine on the trees, enticing us to climb and gather.

Their red faces sparkle in the sun, begging to be picked and boxed.

So yet again, we preserve the jewels of summer to be cherished in the dead of winter,

They remind us of the taste of summer, when gardens are asleep and dreaming.

Nature’s balance (re-post from 2015)

Purple thunder, speaking sky.

The sound sneaks in to doubting ears.

But soon, unable to be ignored, it rolls in

Splitting the sky,

Singing to my heart

And watering the earth.

As the storm approaches, the lights go out.

The air is still and filled with anticipation.

Birds become silent and

Trees grow heavy.

The rain follows the clouds

And the wind rocks the trees to the sound of the sky.

Heavy air crushes the field and

Rain pummels the garden.

Plants, grass and trees shake in the torrent and rivers run along

The roadside washing away the day’s dust.

The very earth trembles with the power of the storm

As lightening spells its name in the sky.

The black clouds race across the heavens and

Carry the storm on their backs.

But all too soon for me, the western horizon brightens, the

Energy is spent, the storm subdued.

Sunrays break through the darkness and

The earth sparkles and shines in its fresh – washed brilliance.

The storm has run its course,

Released its tension and fulfilled its purpose.

The birds resume their song, the brook runs full,

The garden is watered and the earth refreshed.

The thunder returns to silence and

Nature’s balance is restored.

 

 

Frozen in Faith

Garden statues in the dark are

Emotions frozen in time.

They are profiles of love in stone

Whose souls touch in the night while

Shadows hide their truth.

Earth turns the statues away from the night and towards the sun,

Always chasing its light and warmth

In an endless journey from light to dark

And back again while 

Heart statues stand, emotions frozen in time as

Profiles of love frozen in faith.