Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Grey wind and ginger tea. The way the sun falls off the edge of the earth every night, the light on radishes and winter squash. Standing in the driveway of the Melone House, watching winter-pink gold-rimmed clouds soar across the sky like sailboats, wondering about the mechanism of wind. Sunsets at the farm. The way a shock of nameless birds shattered across the sky this morning, a mass of small pebbles dancing. Harvesting chard alone in the back field, the voice of the hillside, the bank of clouds on the horizon, wall-solid and brick-blue. The weight of a pumpkin. The scent of apples, the early mornings, the dark tea. The light everywhere, everywhere, the way it shines through a day and changes the shapes of wind and oak and crates of spinach. The scent of fall brushing my back, the hard line of the sun sinking behind the side garden, the way it silences the farm, the way it silences my heart, the texture of wind moving through darkness, belonging to a place.