Once or twice a week, once every couple of weeks, a couple times a month; It seems I can’t ever get a grip on the regularity of blogging. Is that a bad thing? Perhaps not for a writer. But it always feels like I’m “talking” to myself. Some folks do, I’ve heard my wife talk to herself a time or two. (I wonder if she’s ever gotten into an argument with herself and lost.)
Today while digging out weeds and spent tomato plants with the garden fork my left foot slipped after the fork came to an abrupt halt; big rocks will do that. It’s hard to explain exactly how it happened, but geez-O-man did it hurt the arch on my left foot! I’m limping like I broke it or something, but actually it’s just another sign of the aging process – I can’t go at it like I used to 10 years ago, these bones are getting brittle (I should have been wearing sturdier boots, not flimsy rubber garden clogs).
The trees will be bare within a couple of weeks. But their fall foliage fest can be absolutely stunning. Some say it’s more colorful when certain weather conditions are met, but I’ve not been able to prove it one way or the other. When the trees are on fire with color in autumn I try not to think about what happens soon after that fire is extinguished. I know there has to be four seasons, but if there were only three and we still had 365 days in a year would it be so bad?
Down in Tucker Hollow
I first came to believe
the sun couldn’t shine endlessly
sometimes it has to grieve
The river bottom called me
with a whisper loud as hell,
“never doubt your heart,” it said
“or fear what lies ahead.”
But I have fears and a doubting heart
borne from running fast and far,
never stopping long enough
to catch a falling star.
What if that whisper meant to be a scream,
my shadow’s favorite friend,
calling me with roses,
prickly fixes for the end?
Lie down, disappear, float away
on the river’s cold gray mist,
and when you arrive please tell me
is there any more than this?