September's End
September is all but done.
Our fingers are purple from plucking berries, scored by thorns, sore and satisfied.
How lucky we are, and how grateful!
Through the cold spring, and the soggy summer, we have worked to make this place more and more beautiful. We are charming sustenance from the soil with our toiling; using the present to craft a kinder path- a tree-lined, fruit-bearing way.
And so here we are, in autumn, a time of harvest, glut, and storage.
A time to plant trees, a time of festival.
Our lives are seasonal, tidal, temperate, held in repetitions that are never the same; variations of repeating patterns, a common uniqueness.
How lucky we are, and how grateful!
Our fingers are purple from plucking berries, scored by thorns, sore and satisfied.
How lucky we are, and how grateful!
Through the cold spring, and the soggy summer, we have worked to make this place more and more beautiful. We are charming sustenance from the soil with our toiling; using the present to craft a kinder path- a tree-lined, fruit-bearing way.
And so here we are, in autumn, a time of harvest, glut, and storage.
A time to plant trees, a time of festival.
Our lives are seasonal, tidal, temperate, held in repetitions that are never the same; variations of repeating patterns, a common uniqueness.
How lucky we are, and how grateful!
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