The seasons converge in Autumn; Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall. September, October, November and December come together. Snow, sunshine, birth and death happen. The wind blows, or doesn’t blow, and what we know for sure is that which we don’t know, in the face of uncertainty. We feel sadness, happiness, hope and despair. One is irrelevant, without the other.
Category: Nature
The Wine Month
The Saxons called October Wyn-Monath, or Wine Month.
Ancient Germans called October, Winter fyleth
In honor of the full moon.
In 2020 the golden colors of the Wine Month
leave me feeling drunk.
In my stupor I dream of snowy days
And white snowflakes tumbling down from the sky.
New England Aster in October
On the trail flowers and ferns testify to the delicate balance of nature throughout the seasons. A wild flower may appear along the path by itself, or you might find it flourishing in bunches. The lone flower may not return the next year, allowing only one chance to appreciate it in the moment.
In the photo you will see a New England Aster. Its deep purple color stands out against the reds and browns of the October landscape.
Prize of the Forest
Deep within this forest sits a white mushroom. Twelve feet in diameter, in the shape of a beautiful salad bowl, created solely by the forces of nature told me: “something is right with the world.”
Wednesday, November 6th.
TIME WAS SLIPPING AWAY
It was daylights savings time, and I was up at 6. Jumped into my clothes, and grabbed a cup of coffee. I walked outside. The light was still dim. Water in the birdbath was frozen. Out in the meadow, across the way, goldenrod, and Queen Anne’s Lace, were all covered with frost. I lost myself, in the simple beauty of the colors, textures, hues, and nuances, of shriveling up, dried plants, refusing to die. I saw the complexity of the scene, and realized that time was slipping away.
Cornus Florida ~ Pink Dogwood
Dogwood flower, on a cold rainy day in the spring.
Willow’s Story
I mentioned earlier that I met a young woman named April, and in writing, also referred to a woman I met named Willow. I saw Willow today. I see her on occasion because she works in the community. When I first noticed her name-tag, oh say, three years ago, I thought, “how unique!” I notice names, and inevitably pry into why a person got his or her name, but didn’t ask Willow the first time I met her, nor the second, nor the third. The name took time to settle into my psyche, and finally, today, when I saw her, I wanted to know the story behind her name, so I asked, “Why is your name ‘Willow?’
This is what she said: “My parents were hippie types who lived in the Woodstock Valley. Tree huggers that lived off of the land, a custom my dad still practices today, in the same place. They did everything the natural way, when I was growing up; kept a large garden, split their own wood, and canned all the vegetables.” Willow continued; “When I was born my parents deferred to my grandmother for help in naming me. Grandma was an Algonquin Indian born on a reservation, not full blooded herself, but married a full-blooded. (Willow has blond hair and blue eyes so the story of the Native American background was a bit surprising.) When I was born grandmother said, ‘you shall name her “Willow” after the beautiful willow trees whose branches reach for water in the stream, and so “Willow” I was named. Along came my other sisters, and they were also named with respect for Mother Nature. One is “Rainy,” and other “Dawn.””
And so the story goes. It’s almost a fairy tale. I loved the story. I hope you did too.
The End
By Tiffany Creek
For Earth Day
And the Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
Shelly
Dying to Bloom
Transitions of time, at 7:05 a.m.
Red breasted robins hobbled on the grass, and bobbed for worms,
on the muddy bare spots on the ground.
Smaller black and white birds leapt from branch to branch.
The invisible dove cooed, as day broke,
And the train rumbled on its tracks.
The viburnum was dying to bloom.
The snow was blue.
I heard the muffled sound of sirens, blaring in the distance,
And saw my first red cardinal, taking cover, under an olive branch.
Spring was here!*
*Crops for the garden may be planned.
Watch for the waning, and waxing of the moon.
By Tiffany Creek
Watch the sunset, and…
Be favorable to bold beginnings.
Virgil
On Tiffany Creek 