Snow on the mountains
Rain in the valley, and the willow tree leans close,
tapping on the window, glistening with raindrops.
Out in the garden the sunflowers take note of the of the white mountain tops
and lean closer together, waiting for the small birds to come to come and feast,
twittering with news of the approach of winter.
I bring the plants from the summer porch and tuck them in for winter
wherever there is a window to surround them with light -
and sunshine, when it comes.
They have grown during their summer sojourn, both in size and numbers
as my good neighbor has popped across the street with plants freshly propagated,
- or in need of!!!
The mail arrives and in it a poem from 'A Year of Being Here'
September Midnight Sara Teasdale
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
A little blue sky, a little sunshine now, late in the morning.
A digital Skype call from our youngest son, up on the meadow in the Chilcotin,
with live pictures of chipmunks running along the snake fence
that surrounds the property, - what he calls the chipmunks'
four-lane highways as they use each layer of the fence
for transporting seeds from the meadow to their winter stash.
He tells me of his morning visit to the beaver's dam
and how she has prepared for winter, with her
stack of willow wood and her smooth mud entry
to the water from her cozy stick home.
And of the symbiotic arrangement the black bear (that makes the meadow
his summer home) has with the beaver; in return for access to her waterway
he discourages the beaver from straying too far from home and cutting down the aspen
that the two footed inhabitants of the meadow
set great store by, and would be very cross and not have such friendly feelings
for the beaver were she to include the aspen in her winter stash of food, along with the willow.
I am eternally and incredibly amazed at the technology that allows me to see
from 500 miles away little clips of
chipmunks, racing along the fence, -
the beaver's home, and
occasionally even the black bear (although not often)
Did see a Grizzly on the meadow once, though, via Skype.
Perhaps if the sun keeps shining and the clouds part I will get up
to the country garden and get that red peony
and a huge hosta that needs to be moved and make roots before winter arrives.
Sometimes I think Fall is as fickle as Spring and as much of a tease
before they finally usher in Summer and Winter.
