Tuesday, November 5, 2013


"Lovely are the silent woods, in gray November days ..."

Many of the trees are bare. The lawn is covered in crunch, and even though I run the tractor over it, there's a new layer the next day.

"It's good to be in such a place, on such a day. Problems vanish from the mind, and sorrows steal away ..."

Woodsmoke from chimneys. A hot fire, crocheted blanket on my shoulders, wool socks on my feet. Southbound geese, the crinkle-crunch of leaves underfoot. Moody skies; a golden/rust/red canvas; brown ground.

trails by kids

I'm searching comfort foods. Soups, breads, baked goods and breakfast casseroles. In a binder of recipes, I find a letter from a friend who died last year. (I liked the poem she included about the woods, and tucked it away.) The letter is two years old.

"In the woods of gray November, silent and austere, Nature gives her benediction to the dying year."

Sometimes phrases take me back in time.

"My thoughts often wandered; and sometimes it seemed that I had been walking along that highway all my life, though I could not tell where or why." Hittite Warrior, Joanne Williamson. 

But not as often. And not as long.

At the nature center last week, the kids learned about owls and foxes. We saw frogs, snakes and other forest animals. I wrote to Cindy, "It was just like being home!"

I'm thankful for the woods.

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