"...And the painted ponies go up and down..."

At one end of the piano is a vase full of pussy willow stems. Spring signs. At the piano's other end, in a wall hanging, are cattail stalks, flower heads and leaves. Autumn signs. In between, unseen but unforgotten, lie Summer's memories, waiting for notes and chords to trigger them, the songs and sounds of seasons' passing.

one of Summer's singing sounds

Photo by J. Harrington

Last night we ate dinner on the deck of the Watershed restaurant in Osceola. The sounds of waterfalls and motorcycles, and children playing badminton in the playground below the deck, were condiments that enhanced the meal. Soon, but not too soon we hope, all our meals will be eaten indoors until late next Spring. We're not rushing the seasons. We're acknowledging a recognition that some(?), many(?), all(?) joys can be fleeting makes them even sweeter. It won't be long until the flocks of hummingbirds gathering for their own dinners on our deck have headed South for the Winter. The goldfinches, nuthatches and chickadees have managed to empty a feeder we just filled yesterday. We think that may be a record. Haven't seen any rose-breasted grosbeaks for several days now. Have they moved on already?

goldfinch and nuthatch at feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

Thunderstorms and rain showers have been occurring in a pattern unanticipated and unforecast, except as part of a general outlook for the area. Summer's humidity continues to clash with Autumn's cool breezes. We think that, rather than get perturbed or frustrated that the weather isn't cooperating with our plans, we will reread parts of Ursula Le Guin's translation of Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching. We'll combine that with a look forward to further enjoying the seasons of pumpkins, apples and all souls.

Another Life

By Howard Moss

There might be the quibble of birds and the swag

Of a river and a distantly belled

Altar of animals, softly spoken;

Certainly cattail, sumac, and fern

Would rise from the marshes nearby, revealed

In forms too perfect to envy trees—

Not trying for larger and larger keepsakes.

Cryptic and subtle green, hedgerows

Hiding mysterious deer, the start

Of a rabbit, as if towers and clouds

Had suddenly shadowed an open field—

These would be the events of the day,

Life having narrowed down to please

Natural hungers and thirsts, the grass

Thick at our feet, and, above our heads,

The stars, their fireworks anemones.

What shall I say of the house? Or you?

Only industrious ghosts would know

How lazily cropping up the view

Would make the impossible possible;

Nothing but weekdays would blankly graze

On time’s oblivious pastures, free

At last of motive and thought, and we,

Becoming ourselves so naturally,

Would never say, looking up at the sky,

Another life is shining in the sky.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.