Perfection In Time

Everyone is deserving, at some time in their life, preferably when the work filled day has ended and a weary peace is settling on their shoulders, the one perfect leaf, a gift from heaven, floating down to their feet and resting still and poised as if waiting to be noticed, to be selected and saved and savored; one still and well-shaped leaf that also is at days end in its chores and is molded as if by clay into a perfect frame of a dance move with crisp swirls and fine-tuned edges and perfect patterns left over from some autumn song.  This leaf above was found a year ago and sits in a jar on a dresser that stands against the wall at the foot of my bed.  This leaf lies patiently waiting for me on certain days to pick it up and twirl it in my fingers as if the dance is not over.

Soft Beginnings

The sky is blushing with excitement to start the day, but the heavy fog pulls a veil over her excited face and leaves only the clawed outline of branches in silhouette against the rosey sky.  The air is heavy with water and warmer than usual.  I can hear the mist collecting on the few remaining leaves hundreds of feet over my head and then rolling to the leaves' edges and falling with abandoned effort to the forest floor giving in to gravity and creating a soft snapping sound.

Eventually the sun pierces through in places turning the straw, which covers newly seeded patches in the lawn, to gold.  Almost everything else is still hidden in the silk of fog.  It feels safe and comforting as if this misty blanket can protect me from anything harsh.  All the sharp edges of the end of fall have been smoothed to a soft sheen.  All is reverent and quiet.

I am compelled to take the path to the river to follow the early morning call of Canadian geese disturbed by the increasing light. Their chatter always sounds like the panic of old women at the empty bargain table going for the last treasure and is misplaced in this gray cathedral.  Their camouflage is being removed in subtle layers with each degree of the sun's climb over the southern horizon and they are wary.

The geese have heard me or seen my dangerous shadow before I am near for they are just distant fuzzy ghosts barely visible in the middle of the river heading rapidly and with magical grace to the opposite side.  For a short time it is very quiet.  I am alone.  But wait...I hear the tenuous songs of several birds in the trees.  There is the high cry of a jay above me and the song of white-throated sparrows calling from the shelter of the salt bush to my back.  Even the rhythmic tat-a-tat of the red bellied woodpecker tells me that the day is beginning with or without the sun.

Letter From Home

I was late getting home because I stopped on the way to sit by the river today.  Remember those short fall days when sunlight spilled the color of the leaves across the blue glass surface?  The small brown trout waited in that hole beyond the maple root where the children always looked for them.  Trout at peace with the world because the water was now cold and refreshing and  determined children were now in school.  

I sat on "our" bench.  The place where you first touched my hand as I watched the breeze and sunlight play with the top of your hair and realized that you did have a few freckles.  We were at peace with the world back then as well, not looking forward or back but enjoying the moment.

The woods are damp from last night's rain and the pine smells sharp when mixed with the mustiness of the first fallen leaves.  The sun crosses my body in a warm caress and I loosen the green sweater that you said you liked because it brought out the red in my hair.  I wear it often these days.  

I bid goodbye to one more day.  Its end bringing you closer to home when we can sit here together once again.