There is that one moment in late summer
when leaves fade to sunlight and begin their descent,
the sweet order of bay fills the air with nostalgia.
The nights are drawing in, my grandmother said.
The shadows in the deep pocket canyons lengthen,
The shadows in the deep pocket canyons lengthen,
& the whine of chainsaws announces the first hearthfires,
where a tide of woodsmoke rises, blue as an inland sea.
A restlessness stirs the psyche, all those undone tasks.
I think: One can never be homeless in the garden
I think: One can never be homeless in the garden
where the cat drapes herself across aching limbs
and the mind travels the distance of winter frost
while tumbling leaves escape to darker climes.
10/4/23 Write On! with Terri Glass
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