Autumn Greens

Swiss chard, collards, mustard greens, kale; I wash and pull the stems. In a line I boil then saute, store, refrigerate. This industriousness fueled by another morning at the market, stoked by my fond remembering that now is the time for greens. Larger, richer, sweeter; they only get better with the cold. Full-leafed abundance, Autumn blooms.

Deep Woods Home

A remote campsite; more what we had in mind, but not where our tent is pitched. We committed to a small national forest campground down the mountain, still too close to humans. But here, a mile and a half into a hike, we rest as if this was home. Sheltered by maples and hemlocks not a soul but us and a woodpecker. North Creek bubbles past and we doze.

Joanne's Pie

Yesterday we bought three pies. It seemed extravagant; we didn't know then that Joanne was dead. Our neighbor whittled away by hard years; she and I had a tenderness for each other. I knew this time with the ambulance was different. I knew she would go without me doing as much as I wanted. It happens that way; and it happened that the third pie, blueberry, was really for those left, the ones who helped her go.

Clay Mandala

No artistry here; I paid two dollars for a twenty-five pound bag of scrap. Red clay, it leaves a wet red residue and dries opaque over my fingernails; I could be up to my elbows on a riverbank. I pound and pull something from as deep as my small intestine. When I'm done, and when it dries, I'll break it up again into dust and let the river take it back. 

Hours

Waiting until morning; it must have been like this (or the origin of this) when everybody went home. Everyone but me leaving the sterile and silent, the dim-lit halls and elevators. Me, I was bound by I.V., bound by oxygen tent, bound by what I was told about what was best for me. And because sleep was also best, even nurses kept away. Awake, I waited for visiting hours.

Booksnobbery

I am grateful; I chisel through two book chapters, not a chore, but a peaceful exercise. This book is not chasing me through its bulk, keeping me up nights like an itch, tactically planting agonizing devices of suspense. It knows I don't want to be anesthetized; at least not today. Instead I want to learn a new language; to see my own world as new.

Restless

Our house and its contents have settled; Chris sleeps hard on this first night of ten days off. Even our antsy dog Scout has found this hour when she's wandered enough, scratched enough, sneezed enough. I am alone and awake, listening to our home exhale in the deep rhythm of rest. I am the real restless one; never ever finished, never ready to put down the day.