What If We Have It Wrong About Aging?

As leaves crimson
does the chokeberry long
for May
when
covered with snowy blossoms
she beckons
to wild bees?

Beauty's blaze
faded
does she rue
her bare branches
where cardinals
perch
to devour 
bitter berries?

Ripening over
the course 
of a lifetime
we
offer our
fruit 
to the world.

Hospitality of the Hedgerow

Wild and unruly it is,
an untamed profusion
of blackhaw and arrowwood,
winterberry and shrubby dogwoods
weaving a tangle
of hiding places,
an autumnal banquet
for the wild ones.

Wild perennials wander here,
wingstem growing where it will,
and stands of goldenrod
jockeying with the asters,
nectar and pollen in yellows, pinks and purples,
swaying with the movement 
of bees and beetles feeding.

As mistflowers beckon
to the swallowtails and Monarchs,
goldfinches echo unceasingly 
from the sunflowers planted by chipmunks
and the pokeweed's purple berries
invite the catbirds to dine,
and the thrashers,
and thrushes.

Autumn's palette splashes
across the hedgerow 
in glad abandon,
welcoming everyone,
welcoming
all.

Trail Wood: Moments in September

First light, I step into the clear, cold, still September morning, quiet, but for the birds' restlessness...

Robins chipping, catbirds murmuring in the underbrush, blue jays calling in the distance and
red-bellied woodpeckers dining on woodbine. Grass drips with dew and pale sunlight touches the trees, leaves hovering between the deep green of summer and the colors of autumn, suspended in time.

Many of the meadow flowers have finished blooming, seed heads slowly drying. The fields belong to the goldenrods and grasses now, Indian grass and the bluestems, myriad shades of brown and gold, subtle, muted beauty... beauty of abundance found in seeds and sheltering stalks, already providing for the coming, leaner season.

Sleek, well-fed and rested, she stands, poised in silence, almost invisible in the meadow grasses. Catching sight of me, she startles and bounds effortlessly towards the woods, white tail flagging, beauty in motion, quickly gone.

It rises lazily, taking its time, lighting the treetops, bathing the meadows in white,

extinguishing stars in its brightness. Daylight, at midnight, stretches across the land.
True katydids call slowly in the chill, enunciating each syllable, "Ka-ty-did," "Ka-ty."
Tree crickets, mimicking spring's toad chorus, fill the fields with song, each trilling a different pitch.

Peace permeates the sanctuary tonight...nurturing, strengthening, enfolding...
Trail Wood beneath the harvest moon.

Abundance

She stood calmly as I milked, and we shared the early morning quiet of the milking barn in companionable silence. Soon others would arrive on the farm, but for those precious moments it was still just she and I, welcoming the day together, each in our own fashion.  She gave two gallons, filling the bucket with a rich, warm stream topped with a foamy layer of milk and air and the word that came to mind was, "abundance."

They hopped among fading flowers, moving up stems and over ground in their search for insects, seldom resting in one place long enough for me to get a good look at them. They had come from who knows where, winging their way southward to a warmer land with a more friendly winter, and had stopped in my yard to refuel. My native gardens are no longer flowering, for the most part, but the dried stalks still bear volumes of seed and host the tiny insects that these Common Yellowthroats were after. They stayed several hours, apparently finding food enough to make their stop worthwhile, and the word that came to mind was, "abundance."

In the Children's Garden, they fly purposely from flower to flower, drawing as much nectar as they can before the soon-to-be-coming freeze. Monarchs, Black-swallowtails, Painted Ladies, Cloudless Sulfurs, and Buckeyes feed on zinnia, Mexican sunflower, cosmos, tall ageratum, tropical milkweed and aromatic asters swaying in the breeze. I planted the flowers for just such moments, moments when butterflies need sustenance and a chance to rest from their constant foraging elsewhere on the farm. In these last warm days of autumn, I look around at the myriad colors of flowers and busyness of butterflies and the word that comes to mind, once again, is, "abundance."

The vines were long... ten feet long, some of them, and it was time to cut them and clear them away from the sweet potatoes that will be harvested tomorrow. In some parts of the world, sweet potatoes are grown for the vines rather than for the roots and ensure an almost endless supply of nutritious greens in the diet. Here, on the farm, I harvest the roots for people and the greens for the barnyard animals who seem to appreciate them as a great delicacy. I looked at the mounded pile of greens and imagined our cow and sheep and goats eagerly partaking and the word that came to mind was, "abundance."

 We, unfortunately, often think of the word "abundance" in terms of what we may purchase with our money. The dictionary defines it as, "overflowing", "teeming", "richly supplied". Many times, it has nothing to do with money, ours or anyone else's. We are all richly blessed by the abundance of the land that provides for us and for the creatures with whom we share our world. We are blessed by moments of abundance that turn our eyes away from our worries and, if even for a moment, to wonder. The more we determine to look for abundance all around us, the more we see, and in the seeing, the richer we become.