22 October 2024 (a flick)

a flick

of the snake’s tongue —

second summer

21 October 2024 (second summer)

second summer

the leaves don’t stop

falling

8 November 2020 (radio)

Indian summer

a neighbor’s radio

running down a dream

October 19: Warm spell

Indian summer—

even the garter snakes 

are out on the trails.

October 10: Safe harbor

Indian summer—

schooners wrapped for winter

in a glass-smooth harbor

October 4: Tempo

Indian summer.

Walking home

in time with the crickets.

August 10: Guest Poet

While my sister's in-laws plied me with drinks at Natalie's this evening before dinner, her father-in-law Eijk asked me about haiku. I explained the basic tradition and form, including the essential reference to a season and the concept of trying to capture a moment in nature. He then promptly wrote this haiku on a cocktail napkin:

Trees wither simply.
One red leaf decides to die,
fluttering to earth.

(Sorry, Eijk, I had to add a word to line two to give you seven syllables.)

I found it very interesting that as we were enjoying the lush green beauty of summer's peak, a hazy waxing moon rising over the harbor outside, and a restaurant bustling around us with summer visitors, he chose to write a rather poignant poem about fall. But I'm glad he wrote something, because by the time we got home from a long dinner with the four of them at Francine, stuffed and happy, my brain was too tired to come up with anything of my own. Thank you, Eijk, Rose-Marie, Erin and Sander for a lovely evening! (And that last sentence is actually 17 syllables, so there's my haiku.)

July 7: Patch of Sun

I love this hot summer weather, luxuriate in the heat of sunlight on my bare arms, want to roll around like a cat in that patch of sun on my office floor. A set of windows faces west in my office, so the light streams in these afternoons. Heliotrope and purple and yellow vetch blossoms fill the horizon above the sills. Other than boughs waving in a light breeze, the only thing moving out there on this steamy afternoon are goldfinches visiting my feeder, chattering in the distance. A female goldfinch just paused here, her gold breast glowing, the color of sunlight--which of course has no color, but I imagine sunlight made visible to be just that color. She carries with her a patch of sun. She embodies this summer heat.

I watch a goldfinch
from this sultry patch of sun,
both of us glowing.

November 13: Emma's World

My almost 17-year-old cat Emma, while still going strong in many ways, has serious arthritis in her hindquarters which hampers her movements and makes her walk with a sort of sideways-slipping sway. Because she spends a lot of time lying around with her hind legs sprawled uselessly behind her, the other day my mother jokingly called her "Christina's World" after the famous Andrew Wyeth painting.

So Emma's activities today were cause for pleasure. While she's an indoor cat on principle, now that she's old and slow (though not as slow as you'd think), I sometimes let her hang out in the back yard with me for short, supervised outings. On this beautiful Indian summer afternoon, I set up a tv tray and chair so I could sit in the sun on the back porch and read over the proofs of my husband's second novel. Emma came out with me and explored the leafy back yard under my watchful eye. She tromped around in the leaves for quite a while, sniffing everything, undaunted by her awkward gait. She was more active than I've seen her in a long time. She even chased a twig I dragged past her.

Later, after some lunch inside, we went back out to the porch to take full advantage of this weather. She curled up tightly on my lap and napped while I read the latest New Yorker and drank a hot mug of chai latte. The river, dark and riffled, rushed past. Piles of leaves skittered and shifted. Chickadees flitted by on their way to the bird feeder. At one point Emma awoke and watched with interest as a neighbor's cat blithely walked through the yard and right past us, then she curled back up under my arm for more sleep. I held her in a close embrace, feeling keenly in those moments the brevity of the time we have left together. 

Emma and I have been together since before I met my husband. Childless, I have doted on this strange and often ornery little creature for 16 years. So I was especially grateful for us to be able to share these few hours together, with both of us simply enjoying the moment and each other's company, recharged by the late autumn sunlight.

Old cat, piles of leaves,

last warm days of November--

we share the sunlight.

PS: As I wrote this entry at my desk, Emma came over and indicated she wanted to get into my lap. After I boosted her up, I thought she'd curl up and sleep as usual, but instead she sat upright on my knees, alertly watching the screen the whole time I was typing. I told her I was writing about her, and I like to fool myself into thinking she understood.

October 28: Indian Summer

I had a few all-too-brief moments outside today, but from what little I experienced of the day, it seemed the epitome of Indian summer--unseasonably warm, blue sky, odd flowers blooming in otherwise dead and leaf-strewn gardens (did I see white irises in one yard?), with the late fall foliage burnished in gold, umber, russet, and bronze. All week it's been in the 60s, although we've also seen a lot of fog and rain (and even some thunder and lightning). By the weekend we're supposed to be back down in the 40s again, and the chilly slide into winter will probably begin in earnest. I already made an appointment to get my snow tires put on.

Driving around in the glow of the day, I was thinking about that phrase "Indian summer." Where did it come from? According to Wikipedia, the phrase has been used for more than two hundred years and might refer to the time of year when the native tribes would take a break from raiding colonial settlements, presumably to prepare for winter. Or, it might have meant the season when Indians harvested their corn and squash. In this part of the country, it seems a bit late to be harvesting corn, but maybe they dried it on the stalk. To complicate things, I found online an article by William Deedler, a weather historian for the National Weather Service, who has found at least one account suggesting that the phrase might actually refer to India, in which Indian summer may have described the mild period of the year when ships leaving India could carry more cargo. In any case, the connotation is a positive one--it's a time of peace or plenty. Truly, a calm, warm day like this one feels like that sort of gift.

In some European countries, this time of year is called "St. Martin's summer." In Spain and Portugal, says Wikipedia, they have big celebrations rooted in Celtic tradition in which "bonfires, roasted chestnuts, and wine have an important role." I like the sound of that.

And all this makes me now think about Indian pudding. Perhaps that's what I should make tonight to celebrate what may be our last day of Indian summer...

Landscape shifts to gold,
color of squash and pumpkins.
Indian summer.