As you will hear some people read poetry so that no mortal could tell it was poetry, so do some people read their own lives and those of others. George MacDonald, Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood
summer, having abruptly ended,
September 1 arrives.
The rooster crows; 6:30am
dark no sunrise hinted in the east even yet
high expected 67.
I am insufficient, mere decency no longer equates to enough in this life
I’ve been out of the nights-hiding for nearly three hours now, enraptured by reading, engaged in pen on paper journaling
tucked under slim blanket with window open, rain splattering gently against the deck just beyond
I know the light will deepen and expand soon
I know the summer is coming to a close and the blessedness of the quieter season is nearly upon me.
I will not panic in this change. I will not judge something ‘over’ before I see what is becoming. This too is a beginning. This too is a new. This too, shortening and cooling, falling and curling-in notwithstanding, is a place I can open to and expand~
A waiting, an easing, even dare I say
an anticipation Not of,
but for.
What does curling in bring
how is my insufficiency
entirely sufficient?
This is my good work today. This is my good work.
Autumn.
Curl in.
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