Sunday, October 24, 2010


We have had an unusually warm fall this year.  I still have herbs and my zinnias are still blooming.  We are having trouble finding a spot for our Halloween skeletons and gravestones.  But no matter how much we rejoice in the green, we know that fall is coming.  This is a poem I wrote this time last year for a creative writing class I took.  This is how I look at fall.


Little gifts wrapped 
in thin brown papery skins,
nestled in my crusty garden gloves 
that hold the shape of my hand 
even when they are empty.
I settle you carefully into your cradle of dark earth,
pointy side to the sky,
even though I am sure
Mother Nature knows which way is up.
I rely on the feline mafia
to take care of any thieves.
I will find their decapitated mummified bodies,
flat and hard after a long winter
when the snow recedes.
I will look each day for you.
Then suddenly there you are 
purple, yellow, white
while everything else still looks asleep.
Joyfully, I will shout
“The crocuses are up!”
I will tramp across the wet yard
on my way to work,
my heels sinking into the damp earth
because I have to see you.
Touch spring.
Touch the earth turning into another cycle.
Starting again.

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