24 October 2012

Late Fall, Late Afternoon

It's been the most autumn of fall days, the weather moody with clouds that are gray and hanging close to the earth in many layers, passing through as if marching to some certain beat and destination.  They occasionally reveal brilliant blue and let through the glowing sunlight whose rays top the trees setting the red and yellow leaves flaming up into the sky.

A sudden unexpected gust of wind sends leaves and dirt and my children to scatter to the four corners of our garden and beyond.  Inside, the windows still thrown wide open from the generousness of this day are letting in the tremendous breeze, curtains waving violently out, perpendicular from the wall, and then suddenly sucked back to the screen before being let go,  hanging straight beside the windows.

I look out to see that most of the leaves from my boston ivy on the backyard fence have been driven off their vine to the ground.  Such is the price of the heady excitement, such is Fall.  I have pulled out half of my yellow marigold bushes along the fence and the tomato plants from the garden; my yard looks bare and slightly uncomfortable.

Go Down, Moses plays deeply in my kitchen, the base voice filling the house. Let my people go.  I set the song on repeat.  Let my people go.

The cold weather is coming.  The dreary days before the snow.  The tiring days of setting bewildered children to rights, doing homework, practicing the piano, getting in the allotted reading minutes.  Chopping the onions for dinner, orchestrating the play acting, setting the meat frying in the skillet.  Setting the table for dinner, clearing the dishes off afterwards.  The weary nights of tucking in tired kids, one after another.  

But for now there are five children running with the leaves, tumbling in the yard, the wind blowing away any concerns.  And there is me watching from the window, the breeze blowing past my face and all through the house.

2 comments:

  1. Wow. That was awesome. You need to write a book (if you aren't already).

    ReplyDelete