Boat's Last Day

Last Days (Mary Oliver)
Things are
changing, things are starting to
spin, snap, fly off into
the blue sleeve of the long
afternoon. Oh and ooh
come whistling out of the perished mouth
of the grass, as things
turn soft, boil black
into substance and hue. As everything,
forgetting its own enchantment, whispers
I too love oblivion why not it is full
of second chances. Now,
hiss the bright curls of the leavs. Now!
booms the muscle of the wind.

Today is the day Daryl decided to put away the boat. I could have waited another few days, and enjoyed one more ride, but, the season has changed and every day the winds threaten to toss the boat around too much for his "sailor" knots. It was one of the windiest day we've had out here so far this year. In the afternoon the clouds pulled in and turned rainey and dark. I suppose these waves do not look so big, but we thought they were big enough to hurry in the boat.

A Golden Autumn Day

The Black Walnut Tree (Mary Oliver)
My mother and I debate
we could sell
the black walnut tree
to the lumberman,
and pay off the mortgage.
Likely some storm anyway
will churn down its dark boughs,
smashing the house. We talk
slowly, two women trying
in a difficult time to be wise.
Roots in the cellar drains,
I say, and she replies
that the leaves are getting heavier
every year, and the fruit
harder to gather away.
But something brighter than money
moves in our blood - an edge
sharp and quick as a trowel
that wants us to dig and sow.
So we talk, but we don't do
anything. That night I dream
of my fathers out of Bohemia
filling the blue fields
of fresh and generous Ohio
with leaves and vines and orchards.
What my mother and I both know
is that we'd crawl with shame
in the emptiness we'd made
in our own and our father's backyard.
So, the black walnut tree
swings through another year
of sun and leaping winds,
of leaves and bounding fruit,
and, month after month, the whip-
crack of the mortgage.

Neighbor Fred has a walnut tree in his yard that I never noticed until this week. The color is obviously what got my attention, even though it's been there for many, many years. Not sure why it took so many seasons for me to notice it, but, like Thoreau said, "only that day dawns to which we are awake..." so, I guess I'm finally in a slow-enough pace to notice things like a brilliant walnut tree that's been my neighbor for a long time now.

Silver Morning Light

Morning Poem (Mary Oliver)
Every morning
the world
is created
under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches-
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead-
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging-

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what you wanted-

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

On the morning that I took these photos I woke up earlier than usual and, being alone, (Daryl was in Idaho) I stepped out to the end of the dock, just to see and absorb morning dew and such a calmness on the lake. It was as quiet as it is at night, which surprised me. Even the moon can still be seen in the center of the sky. It was a very peaceful start to the day, and, a new view of appreciation for me, since our usual enjoyment is evening time.

Fall Again

Under the Day (w.s.merwin)
To come back like autumn to the moss on the stones
after many seasons to recur as a face
backlit on the surface of a dark pool one day
after the year has turned from the summer it saw
while the first yellow leaves stare from their forgetting
and the branches grow spare

is to waken backward down through the still water
knowing without touching all that was ever there and has been forgotten
and recognize without name or understanding

without believing or holding or direction
in the way that we see
at each moment
the air


The full moon was last night but I was able to get a couple of photos of the still fat moon rising over the mountain at about 9 p.m.

These two photos, above and below, taken within seconds of each other, the photo below on zoom.

These photos look just like the ones I took last fall! but, still, I am mesmerized...

I came home from a long day and spotted our old friend, Blue Heron, on our floating dock. Even though I was happy to see him, he apparently, was not happy to see me. I was able to snap only one photo before he took off, and when he did, I realized the sound of his wing beats are now something I recognize by sound, even though I lost sight of his dark form against the dark hills as soon as he took off. I walked out onto the end of the dock to take more sunset photos and noticed fish jumping all over the around the dock, where it is still pretty shallow, and this must be why he has chosen our dock for his hunt at dusk.