Heavy clouds holding in the mountain
Containment, wet and shallow
Not deep enough to drown
The rage of waves
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.