Winter whispers through the fields and the forests, breathes new life into the silver moon, soft and steady and still. Only a tingle of ice, a mist of frost in the air, It says: Not quite time, no, not yet there, but soon.
It’s been a little while since I’ve participated in Rebecca’s monthly poetry challenge over at Fake Flamenco. November’s is to write a haiku about something in nature that fascinates you, and that’s right up my alley. So, here are a couple of offerings.
Though we may hold on Nature knows when the time’s right To just let things go
Bare limbs twist and reach Like wanting hands to the sky Hungry for winter
I’m particularly inspired by nature in fall and winter, and I love the change in the color and light, and the bare limbs of the trees. So, this challenge came along at the perfect time! And if you’d like to join the fun, you’ve got until November 13th. 😊
Almost gone, your leaves Fallen and caught by the wind You know what’s coming
It seems to have happened overnight, though I know it didn’t: We woke up this morning, and just like that, our birch tree is ready for winter. It always makes me a little melancholy, watching a season end. But I love winter, and hopefully this year, we’ll have some snow.
There are still plenty of colorful leaves on some of our other trees, so we’re not quite there yet. But winter is certainly on its way, y’all.
The color of fortune and fervor, of mornings and sunsets, of fate and flair and feelings and flame lays its claim to the leaves again. And we – only passing and making our way in this world – we get to see for the briefest time this lucky red that dyes the ties that bind. How fleeting, fading fast, it seems, and nothing lasts, they say. But this, surely this we can hold, always there, bright and bold, in our memory.
I used to be afraid of spiders, but now, living in the country, I look at them as friends. Well, mostly. I certainly wouldn’t want to meet the wrong spider at an inopportune moment, and some relationships work best with a little distance. But I find the ones that set up shop around our property to be largely unintrusive, and interesting, and honestly, sort of beautiful. And it helps that their webs keep the other bugs and pests away.
Now that we’re coming into fall, I’ve seen several.
Mostly writing spiders, which as a writer myself, I can’t help but feel a certain kinship with.
That’s strange, isn’t it? But we women have stories in us, and deep down, I think we’re all weavers and makers.
And I figure, outside in the fields and trees and such, I’m really in their territory, not the other way around. So, as long as they keep to themselves, I’ll do the same.
I’ve written before about how I find bugs fascinating. Graham snapped a few pictures of this one – just molted – yesterday, and I just had to share.
Last year, we had a giant brood of cicadas in the region, and boy were they…annoying. And different from our usual set, too.
Neat to watch, and cool to think about, but generally loud, and ever-present. I caught one of them landing on me every ten seconds.
No brood this year, but one of the surest signs of summer around here is the gentle (and sometimes not so gentle) hum of the cicadas. Like fireflies in the evening and passing storms in the afternoon, it’s really just not summer without it.
Hello and warmest welcome to the bluest sky and greenest green – it’s good to see you. Hello to long days and lightning bugs, and a breeze that hugs trouble away, to a season of rain and sunshine, and a time for holding on. Here and gone in a lightning flash and a thunderous song, we know you can’t last. But hello, old friend, for while you’re here, and soon enough back again.