Half a foot of fresh powder fell here last night,
my Colorado siblings would say;
unless the goal is to entice skiers up from Denver,
then it’s “nearly two feet, hurry, before it collapses in the sun.”
The truck is coming in the morning,
we’ll put it all together tomorrow.
Tech Tuesday, dress Wednesday, school show Thursday morning,
Friday evening, Saturday both matinee and evening, Sunday matinee
2:30 and 7:30 at the Diana Wortham Theatre.
New idea for this year, first step,
12 foot tall chocolate sundaes.
Not shown: 70 dancers
from 4 years old to 70-some
performing around 180 parts
180 costumes, averaging 7 pieces each
1300 items, more or less,
plus a few hundred props.
In the corner, left alone,
the tutus pause for calming breaths.
We’re not going to miss it,
you shouldn’t either.
When I see an outhouse lean
across the line of straight white trees
I like to think some birches pull it,
birches too far from town to know
of septic tanks or perforated pipes
whose only game is what they make and play alone.
Shot straight up,
the november sky,
clean as a pantone chip.
Sky bisected by a phone line
under a power line
beside the tree line.
Winter is coming
but not today.
The Ginko hangs on to the last.
Some saplings hold on in protected pockets.
But, it’s over, really.
Except for the oaks,
last to emerge, last to drop.
It is all the leaves on the ground
that feed our surround of forest fires.
Depending on which way the wind blows,
the sun cuts through the drifting smoke in streaks
and we get warnings not to breathe.
Now, after the first hard freezes,
and the leaves all come to ground,
we move to the next things.
A tidy traditional cranberry sauce kit,
just add to the berries and cook.
Meanwhile, shall we repurpose the
Sleeping Beauty columns for the Land of Sweets?
We’d come to the compost heap to harvest a poke of genetically dubious
volunteer squash and melons.
Shot a shaggy shadow self.
Lifting eyes to the hills,
the compost enjoys a 360° sweep,
when the hay’s cut,
of all our ring of mountains.
Everywhere, first signs of the retarded deployment of fall colors.
October 15th used to be middle of the range for peak color
in the middle elevations,
but in this ever-warming century it’s past Halloween,
sliding towards Thanksgiving.
While, beside the monitor, the last of the color
drains from compost-ready cut flowers,
in splendid decadence.
We had a visitor, for the first time in many years,
we stalked her for an hour, just the one.
A decade ago, we’d have hundreds flock through.
If the snake can’t see you, you can’t see the snake,
brunching on burrowing mammals.
Over the south ridge, also mostly hidden,
up at ravens’ croft, a pillowy agent of change
assesses the coming of the colors
in the cerulean October sky.
The Monarch even made a movie, too big to post here.
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also for your computers, tablets, mobile phones (free of charge).
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Give either or both of these a try and let me know what you think.
Comment here, or email me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
A few clips from readers,
carefully culled from
from favorable reviews on Amazon
Fit to Curve is a skillfully written mystery with complex characters and such a fascinating plot that I’m way behind on my chores.
This series is a favorite with interesting plots and wonderfully drawn characters. Wish the author would write more of them. The type of book you don’t want to end.
A bed and breakfast mystery. Super characters, well developed. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. A mouth-watering, good read. Love the old lady with the sharp wit. I’d like the recipes, too.
The plot builds very slowly. But once I got into it, I was hooked. I liked the characters, and you get a lot of insight into them.
This is too fine a novel to be mired in the mystery/suspense ghetto. It’s a good mystery, with a complex plot, all the mystery trappings, but the characters are rounded and attractive. The theme seems to me to be a consideration of morality – not just sexual morality (or immorality), though there’s some of that too, for those who like to read such descriptions, but all kinds of morality: for how high a price might you sell your soul?
Heart Attack is a great read!
This couple are a great addition to the mystery genre. Sharp and interesting with a bit of humor and spice.
Snappy dialog. Geoff and Ellen are a great team. He has a definite intuitive method of assessing info and arriving at conclusions that baffle and irk his cohorts. Ellen is more conventional and together are a great team. Unusual mystery not easily solved.
Colors just happen in the fall.
Abundance of don’t-forget-to-touch-mes,
but calming now, no longer explosive.
Truth, beauty, decay.
Sumac works through orange
into its final reds.
Spent and pulling back, residue of bloom.
Quiet all summer, the chimney rose seizes the day.
Still just a scatter, it’s early days.
Weeds are flowers
you don’t have to cultivate.
Sometimes the best colors
aren’t hardly colors at all.
Thirteen bales, first cut in June, just three in September
after one of the driest summers on record, our record.
There was areal rain that kept sliding by.
The garden slows, but is not done.
A visit from Esmerelda and the twins
For winter is coming.
The day of the recent rally
a couple guys in a big ol’ red pickup
set up their sales station.
Hundreds of Made-in-China “Make America” hats
in red and white and blue
plus a dozen cases of t-shirts and banners rolled up.
When they first arrived the wind was perfect,
all four banners pulled out straight south down Haywood Street:
Then the wind shifted ever which way
and they all went a little twitchy.
The Asheville Ballet’s annual free performance in the park.
3-400 people watched and, if clapping and hooting count,
they enjoyed what they saw.
Photos are from last night’s performance (Friday, 23 Sept 2016).
One more show, tonight, Saturday, at 7:30 pm.
8 dances from 6 choreographers using 15 dancers,
beautiful work with poised and professional dancing.
Well-done tech — lights and recorded sound and live music
— wonderful venue, perfect weather.
Don’t miss tonight’s show, bring friends and family, maybe folding chairs.
Performance details at the Asheville Ballet website.
Four pictures of the same
heap of discarded flowerheads.
You have to pull the finished flowers
so the next generation of buds
will have nutrients and space enough to bloom.
The jumble of fading stems and petals
like a heap of exhausted partygoers
collapsed after the champaign’s gone
caught by the rising sun.
They’d make a lovely jigsaw puzzle.
Fewer peppers, eggplants, and tomatoes each time you check,
the last big mess of beans,
the last full tray of romas,
one perfect unexploded chestnut,
the blooms from below
visit us briefly
in the air up here.
The bees are in it for the hive,
they load their knees and carry the pollen home.
Butterflies are voracious
but work alone.
They light upon their dinner
for the ghostly gardener
who set their table months before.
The tall flowers, all at once.
A rose leaning languorously on the wire.
Everything is full out.
The day lilies go
in an almost silly abundance.
shows no signs of slacking off
in any of the varieties.
On and on.
The timid little flowers in the rail pot have filled out.
The under story is at maximum,
from the ground reaching up among the low branches of the trees,
all the little weeds, all the middle weeds, all the giant weeds.
And this, of course, is the first sign of the end of summer
the fullness before the finish.
Not much, but the bit of rain,
got the suspended droplets and the light just right,
shined up the ornament in the grass,
of cloudy crystal quartz,
and awakened the giants underground,
to upthrust their sort-of flowers here and there,
sharing sometimes with a bird
some seeming prematurely aged,
scarlet and stark whites,
with accidental happy faces,
and with delicious detail.
While, on a different scale, walking on the grass,
the lone doe, Bones, feasts warily on bird-scattered seeds.
Later, down the lawn, shy Esmeralda and her still-spotted twins
from a finch eye view.
After nightfall, on the counter, yes, katydid,
she thought my camera might be a snack.
Outside, the affable ongoing everyday pillage of the feeders.
Our neighbor was sure he saw a bear’s butt slip into the brush
about halfway between our house and his,
a little fellow, 150 pounds max.