The Browning of Things

The browning of things has begun . . .

the leaves are moving in constant sway
to the winds – time, change, is in the air –
as east to west and back again, maples
and elms, oaks and birch, surrender their
color ecstasies to the browning season

the ground is littered with the detritus
of love – crunchy, fun, kicking-up-heels –
love – of life and cycles and repeatings
as east to west and back again, maples
and elms, oaks and birch, surrender their
life clinging to the browning season

inside onions in butter, hamburger in oil
chicken with a bit of garlic, surge and
simmer and get that good skillet brown
as east to west and back again, maples
and elms, oaks and birch, surrender their
claim to tourist fame to the browning season

as outside fawns turn without effort from
golden butter (the color we name for them)
to brown laced with a bit of black up the spine
the better to hide, to blend, the better camouflage
as east to west and back again, maples
and elms, oaks and birch, surrender their
lives in a final bid at the hoped-for resurrection
of things, come spring, the thing hoped for
come browning season

I Had Me a Bowl of Color

low-hanging branches of gold

dance in the wind waving their

invitation to come out and play

browning leaves carpet the

still-green grass with the

crunch of that perfect first bite

invited, enticed, seduced, I step

out into the magic of it all – this

fall – and I had me a bowl of

color for breakfast today

Wrapped in Color

Thanks, Laura LaPrade!

A house sits 

nestled

nurtured

surrounded

wrapped

by a symphony

of color

Master Artist

is showing off – 

again –

it is fall 

in the Highlands

and hearts

rejoice

at the hope

promise

found

in dying

things

and all

is well

9 of My Favorite Color Moments

I don't have a (as in one) favorite color.  Color is my favorite color -- all color.  Here's my list of some favorite color moments.  I wonder what your favorites are?

1. Green as in the greening of my world when the spring and summer rains come and the grass and leaves and flowers and bushes burst with green.  I live in a bowl of green

2. The orange of fall leaves and pumpkins and curry spice in the market and the scarf Anna gave me

3. The blue bookends of sky and ocean from an airplane

4. The yellows and golds of the pine boards of my bedroom floor reflecting the shades I choose to be surrounded by

5. The brown of fresh-baked bread and crunchy dead leaves underfoot

6. The red of fireworks and tomatoes and that favorite dress and my too-fast car

7. The dark almost-black brown of the rain-soaked earth

8. The white of a wedding cake and sheets hanging on the line and cloud kangaroos and unicorns on a clear day

9. The kaleidoscope of color that is love – the grey of my Grandma’s hair, the brown of my son’s eyes, the same brown as my own, the black and tan Guinness and my dog Scruffy (may he rest in peace), the peaceful blues my mother is surrounded by (they match her eyes so well), the white stripe on a skunk’s back, the clever and amusing design of a God more creative than my imagination can embrace, as peaceful alternative to confrontation, warning all comers that there’s a cost to getting too close, for that, too, is love.

A Crayon Box of Trees

there
in the cut
human-handmade
marking the boundaries
of the gap we make for our
day-to-day nice necessities to travel
from here to there and beyond – utilitarian
utilities and poles to hold and bear
them – there – in that space
place the flying saws
make are the
trees
left and
left behind
soldiers in form
formation attention
no at ease for these watchers
who watch only each other and wait
for nothing – perfect in their
one-sided symmetry
a crayon box of
trees

Wowowowowowowowow

Driving home yesterday on US Rt. 250 (the Parkersburg-Staunton Turnpike), running along the ridge of Cheat Mountain, I entered the tunnel of trees speckled with sunshine and overflowing with the colors of fall.

Knowing this drive so well, I anticipated the turn that would bring me into the magic.  Even so, it was such a splendid perfection that all I could do was keep saying “wow” – a mantra of wonder at these mountains, this day, this gift that makes a spirit sing with the sheer joy of being alive.

wowowowowowowowowow

Where I Live

Where I live . . .
     You can buy your eggs (fresh from the chicken) at the Post Office
     Your fried chicken (really the best around) from the gas station
     And drop off your dry cleaning at the Court House . . .                 Or the bank . . .

Where I live . . .
     Until recently . . .
     There were no stop lights . . .
     Only one blinking light in the whole county . . .
Then we got a temporary light during some bridge work . . .
     It’s so unusual, that a deputy sheriff actually had to tell someone yesterday . . .
     Yes, it’s a stop light.
     When it’s red, it means you have to stop.

Where I live . . .
     A one-finger salute by a motorist is not an insult . . .
     It’s a friendly, laconic wave to passers-by . . .

Where I live . . .
     The trees are turning color . . .
     The fawns too . . .

Where I live . . .
     Candidates for Sheriff come together to help out and judge the cooking contest . . .
     And raise money for the local Food Bank . . .
     And everybody (well, almost) wins a ribbon at the fair . . .

Where I live . . .
     People work hard, many just to get by . . .
     Enemies as well as friends help out those in need . . .
     Firefighters and Rescue Squad folk are volunteers . . .
And when you’re sick . . .
     Or dying . . .
     Or your house is burning down . . .
     You know the people carrying you . . .
     Calling out your name . . .
     Saving you and all you value . . .

I suspect it’s much the same where you live . . .
     Except, maybe, for the eggs . . . and the fried chicken . . . and the dry cleaning . . .