While dark overtakes the daylight hours, summer asserts final bouts of heat, but night’s chill verifies it’s fall. Fall, as to lower, to go back, failing light.
Like the trailing vines that ring the garden drying back their brittle leaves, wisely, the squashes remain; I relinquish energetic labor, slow the weeding and cultivating.Butternut squashes use late season blasts to turn clay and sun into fruit: from green to hardy gold skin encasing seed-filled sweet flesh.
My patience so ripens. To not know…To be in this moment.Little mortal mind, don’t flail.It’s only a drying vine,Only a winter basement.This chill, dark season.Heart seeds inside.Hope.To make something delicious of the silence.
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