A tranquil day in late November is passing. When was the last Sunday where the only place to be is at home? How lovely is quiet. Not another human voice sounded near. Only the song of nuthatches, chickadee and blue-jay chirping in the trees. The garden faded to brown and it’s time to trim out the sea oats. The sun is so kindly on the grass that the beach chair came out one more time. When again will bare feet feel warmed by the air. After the pause, I came back to this chore and found my cat decided this was the best place to be. She does think everything is for her already. Sweetie snuggled into the open patch and appeared so dazzled by the brilliant sun, I didn’t have the heart to chase her out. There’s always more pruning elsewhere.
Now is evening. The street lights have not come on, they are out of sync with the time change. It is very dark out in the street. Small lights from the neighbors house appear out the window but the blackness is a cloak of comfort keeping people out there. It is the eve of the full moon in November. All the leaves are not yet fallen. The brilliant ochre and mustard colored maple leaves cling to the branches. No wind today. No cold in the air. A day to remember we are now seven years in this old house. Our little tranquil place near the river. We can see it now through the trees, glittering in the light, moving quietly along. We can hear the turkeys clucking and scratching in the briar patch. What lies ahead? How will we pass our days? It is all happiness to be together. St Francis was scented with incense in homage to his steadfast gaze out into our tender glade.
The time has come for cooking sweet potato and cranberry. The shadows come early each afternoon. The peach tree rests again. No fruit this year. Not a single peach in all of Massachusetts. I wish I’d never trimmed it when young. Don’t listen when an arborist says prune here, cut there and force it down. Let it grow out. Let the limbs go where they will, stop trying to shape a tree to advantage. Sweetie sits under it now, gazing out into the field. The squirrels are subdued today too. There’s not much stirring except one solitary white butterfly that emerged from the compost pile. Why do I do things that take me away from here? There is contentment in this place. My little home at the edge of town. The blessed sleeping trees. A day rest. A day of plenty.