Early days, already

It is early days—of what? We don’t know. My soul senses some impending doom. It hovers above the migraine and my twitching eye.

I have no words, it seems, as I continue to write, type, fill up the page.

First there was the build up to Halloween, trick or treat night, then baby’s birthday—now 1 year old—then my birthday, 66 (I’ll be 70 the next presidential election). And the aftermath of this election.

The trees are mostly bare. First there were the colors, latent and sparing this year, then the latter rain (after a dry September and October), then the wind, which brought down the last of the leaves.

After the hype, the string of busyness, the frenetic running here to there—is over; we tuck into shorter days, longer nights, and learn to love . . .

these November days.

 

Fall, leaves, fall

Emily Brontë

 

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;

Lengthen night and shorten day;

Every leaf speaks bliss to me

Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow

Blossom where the rose should grow;

I shall sing when night’s decay

Ushers in a drearier day.