Wanderer

Light through a window,
illumination against the night.
Beckoning.

Fiddler

On the village rooftop
under the tree,
the fiddler plays.
Sunrise, sunset.

Waking

Fog's fingers
pull curtains of mist
over morning.
Sleep-shuttered eyes open,
awaiting a sliver
of sunlight.

Harvest

November gray. Overnight, it seems, strong winds tore golden brown leaves from every tree. Skeletal limbs reach skyward even as shadowy winter clouds hang lower and lower. The river waters darken, growing colder, the surface buffeted by a brisk breeze.

More than any other month, November holds sadness. It is dying, dead, the send of summer and the autumn equinox, yet not quite to gentleness of December and the first crystaline snow of the season. Limbo. November is limbo, purgatory.

As November recedes, though, a bountiful harvest is laid before us. Red potatoes and Yukon golds, root vegetables, squash and pumpkins, the last gigantic cabbages, the last green tomatoes, an array of crisp red apples grace our tables even as we grace family with that American celebration called Thanksgiving.

Perhaps November's mission is to create a space to mourn the loss of lushness, then nourish us back to contentment as we gather family around a table and celebrate the gift of each other.

Last Dance of Summer

The equinox has come and gone, this year a bold line separating summer's heat from the coldness of autumn. Outside, steel gray skies lower, a deeper heavy sky, a portal to winter. But not quite yet.

In my garden, the hummers dance the last dances amid browning leaves scattered with the last bright colors of the season -- the golds and burnished orange -- wealth of the harvest.

In a week or two those sparkling, flittering creatures will disappear, seeking warmer air and brighter sun in southern climes. I'll take down my bright red feeders, wash them inside and out before setting them aside for another season.

It's been a rich year for hummers -- dozens of them have feasted on my sugar water concoction.

While I will miss them, it's time now to set the table for the winter birds, the cardinals and finches and tiny house sparrows ... different feeders,
different menu.

Cycles and circles.

The last dance of summer. The first waltz of winter.

In my garden.