Moon

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The sun was already setting as the rake scraped the stones on the pathway. I crushed the leaves into the bag and clopped up the driveway, boots crunching small piles of leaves on the pavement.

In the distance, trees painted the sky dusky blue, then slate, then charcoal. In the branches, bushy knots of squirrel nests swayed gently in the cold evening air. Overhead, a half-moon rose through the bare branches of an oak and called to the single star to the South.

A continent lies between you and me. You have your dreams, in your teepee under a thousand stars on the West coast. And I am anchored in the East, in a brick house on a city lot, near a highway.

We are both under the night sky, but we do not see the same moon. You fold your teepee and wander by the light of the moon in a vast starry sky, in a world without end. I plant in a dark moon and nurture the roots in my garden, ever mindful of the boundaries.

In the darkness, a gentle breeze stroked my face. I whispered, "I love you, little nomad," but there was no answer.

November

Caladium leaves lie limp on the ground, their stems like spaghetti.

Hummingbird feeders are abandoned.

Mornings are dark and cold.

November. Complaints are abundant.

Life seems more precious in the scarcity of late autumn.

The crickets still sound in the evening. And maple trees release their golden leaves to drift from the canopy to the soil below, while the Japanese maple turns from purple to crimson.

The impatiens continue to throw off a few blooms, even the rare white one that reseeded itself.

Green headed coneflower and pineapple sage only bloom in the shorter days of autumn.

Pineapple sage has lost its scent, but it continues to bloom until Thanksgiving.

Hurry little fella. Winter will be here soon.

Photos

The door closes. The last guest backs down the driveway. The lights are switched off.

The photo album sits on the table, the sales receipt between the pages. Images of joy and laughter, garden tours, dinner celebrations and dancing, all remind us of happy times.

Yet a moment is only lived once, and photos are a thin line of smoke after a fire. Memories come with silent tears and a stinging in the throat.

After a wedding, hundreds of photos are viewed, edited, cropped, saved, moved, copied and ordered. Production methodically moves to completion, yet one photo still tugs at the heart.

It is an image of a moment when all things seemed possible, like wildflowers in early spring, emerging from their shared tangle of roots to greet one another under the warming sun.