Oh, Barbara. Nailing it again. Reminding us that time "slides though our hands like a rope of silk."
The past two mornings when I went outside to walk it was cold. Cloudy. Windy. Not one of the 59-degree-perfect-fall-mornings I long for all year (and have recently savored.) It was, instead, the kind of chill that wallops you with seasonal change. Just a few days ago it was shorts weather. Suddenly? Time slipped again. It's mid-October.
Hold it, I told myself, savor it, remember how quickly it all slips away — the shorts-weather days, the cloudy, windy ones, the perfection, and the mess. It's all impossibly beautiful.
And Now it’s October
by Barbara Crooker
the golden hour of the clock of the year. Everything that can run
to fruit has already done so: round apples, oval plums, bottom-heavy
pears, black walnuts and hickory nuts annealed in their shells,
the woodchuck with his overcoat of fat. Flowers that were once bright
as a box of crayons are now seed heads and thistle down. All the feathery
....
(Read the rest here.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by
Photo courtesy of Pixabay.
No comments:
Post a Comment