In search of story


October 14.22: Coping, but barely

It wrapped me like a cloak, that papery sound. October’s leaves, battered and bruised, but holding yet, whooshed thickly in a wind tantrum determined to strip away every remnant of summer, thrashing the trees and twisting each leaf, growling down from the dishwater sky and around our little homes, impatient for winter.

The air was warm still, but one muscular shove from the south bore an invisible stream of ice, a whisper in the tumult, frost-winged specter. I felt it and knew then it was saying what it came to say, this insistent rush.

I bent over the lavender, itself bent low. Spent, sleepy, it offered up a final incense as I trimmed back its floppy stems. Two fat bees lumbered through the air to watch and sniff. They too heard the Babel of the papery leaves, in tongues of crimson and copper, and saluted the deep purple of my harvest. They too knew the time.

Leave a comment

Connections: November 10.16

SANYO DIGITAL CAMERAIf you are like me

(and of course you are)

your walk will become


you must follow the crunch

on the side of the paths

mimsy as borogoves

outgrabing the mome raths

because at the end of

arrows and slings

this is how

we make sense of things.

With apologies and thanks to Messrs. Carroll and Shakespeare.