they greet the night
with joyful song and dance
below a fading moon
Tidbits by Shannon 09.09.2018
the temple bell stops but I still hear
the sound coming out of the flowers
Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)
Courtesy of the September 3 prompt at NaHaiWriMo. We are entering my favorite season, autumn. The temperature is finally bearable, the changing colors speak to me of life, even as the world settles in for a winter nap. Because, well — naps! As a child, I couldn’t abide them. As a middle-aged woman, I love them. Speaking of seasons, here’s a neat online quiz to refresh one’s memory as to the why and wherefore of what creates the seasonal change. Now, get out there and find some early fall leaves.
Well, one can’t be everything nor yet do all things. I simply am not “feeling it” when it comes to writing short stories. What am I feeling? Balky. Stubborn. Feet firmly planted. Thirsting to do something with words and creativity not related to policy-prattling. So, here we go. Let’s see if this fits the proverbial bill this post-Mother’s Day. Prompt from May 9 Writer’s Digest poetry prompts.
Just a wee bit of something to think about as autumn winds down and winter prepares to take charge: Is this really the time to sleep? With autumn leaves crunching 'neath booted feet? Our mittened-hands tucked silently behind our stiffened backs and firmly closed minds? Listen to the wind whistling through skeletal limbs, feel the rain drizzling down on shamefully bowed heads. Is this the time we dare to do? To embrace the challenge of life's renewal? Is this the time we cross the line, reach our hand to our brothers and sisters in pain, to the the children in want, and the strangers in vain? Or is this the time we yet turn away, turn inward, turn silent and wait for the spring?
Thou tender encasement of woolen yarn, Thou cocooning shelter of pooled warmth! Sturdy cocoon, a harbor ‘gainst frost, your purled patterns offer refuge for flesh, previously freed to frolic in mosses and dance ‘round leafleted trees. Toes dug lightly in the warm scented earth that bred spring dandelions, nurtured the summer rose. That same dirt -- now wearied with care – by Issue fully ripened and birthed, and now full circle carried to Harvest Home with thankful praise and blessings given, while Mother Earth quilts herself in rust and grey. Her blanket shelters the slumbering Fruits, hiding them from Winter’s chill that slides past trembling Rays, ushering in stillness and somber reflection. As frost lingers and our Fair Sun hides her face, Grant me Thy armor, Thy cordial affection! Shield my extremities from Winter’s sly suggestions of seasonal despair; wrap my numbed feet in your loving embrace, and safeguard their memories of Spring, simple joys and youthful pleasures. By your grace, free them from Winter’s misery.