Heavy clouds holding in the mountain 

Containment, wet and shallow

Not deep enough to drown

The rage of waves

Ocean lures

Stirs me

I wake

Tumbling

Upon the spine of the sleeping beast

Land of dormant fires

Awaiting the chance to ignite

And then it clears.  Then it dries.  We return to blue bird sky and say this is how it should be.

Twenty five degrees and a heavy frost this morning.  The garden has turned to mush once again.  Heck, it’s later than I expected, later than most years.  I gather the bounty of my harvest.  Three baby zucchini and a couple of green tomatoes.  That’s it.  More than most years.  Yes, I know.  A greenhouse goes on the south side of my next house…

Colors turning early yet cold arriving late.  The Aspen begin their show, gaudy as fluorescent flashing lights.  Dazed and dazzling.

A long season coming to an end.

I am as weary as the grass, browning, turned to seed, swaying in the rains, bent over with drops of raining clinging like children to their mothers dress.