Meanwhile, in our yard the tomato plants are heavy with fruit. The green beans are beginning to dry. The apples, most not yet ripe, drop some offerings from their branches.
It is harvest time. The fog has rolled in, a heavy blanket from the San Francisco Bay. It does this every year around this time.
I give thanks for the harvest, for the fog, for Margot’s life. My heart and mind are quiet. Waiting.
I feel curious about what things are yet to come.
May your harvest match in sweetness whatever may feel bitter. The scythe cuts all things down.
But new things grow.
Here is a poem I wrote many years ago, sometime in the mid to late 1990s. In other words, last century.