Memory

My third trip to see Ground Zero since that September morning. The Memorial Pools are open to visitors. I can't help but remember the enormous hole in the ground that I saw in 2003. The fountains drain into a square void.

Farmers market

A few more weekends to bask in the bounty of fall. I want to buy it all and come home to fill the house with the aromas of soups and stews.

Grounded

The last bits of summer are floating to the ground. Every tiny breeze drops another dozen multicolored leaves and lays them out on the still green lawn. They are caught in the blades of grass, in the last blossoms of the year, in the empty birdbath, in the memories of hot days and wonderful evenings.

Letting go

I'm still fascinated with the milkweeds. The large seedpod swells until it finally bursts open, but the seeds are not quite ready to be released. Each row has a white layer of cotton that catches in the breeze, wrestling the seed from its home within the pod. Eventually it will pull away and work itself to the end of the ball of fluff. Another gust and it will be time to let go, to see what adventure lies ahead.

My tree

Everyone needs a tree. A special refuge that is solid against the strongest winds, the fiercest rain and snow. Mine is out on a trail that I run every few weeks. It's always waiting there for me, and doesn't seem to mind if I stop briefly for a chat or just bow my head in acknowledgment as I pass.

Seeds

The grasses are long and have turned to every shade possible of yellow, orange, and brown. Taller plants raise their stalks high to catch the breeze. Splitting open, the milkweeds spill their silky parachutes across the meadows, white dancers on the wind.

Changes

Every morning I look outside to see what has changed overnight. Absent a frost, the changes are subtle. This morning the wind scattered yellow leaves from the ash tree across the lawn, while green and purple hued leaves still cling to the branches. A vine I hadn't even noticed as it wound its way up the ash, has turned crimson. Green tomatoes perch on the wilting plant, attempting to turn red before it is too late.

Fragile Harebell

One minute, the sun is shining warm on my shoulders as I head outside to look at the remains of my garden. The next minute, the sharp wind bites through my clothes. I bundle up in the morning, only to continually shed layers throughout the day. How does the fragile harebell manage to withstand these enormous changes? It is the only flower still blooming when I take the time to peer into the forest floor. Delicate stem, nodding head of paper-thin petals, tiny flash of color, it holds its own against the modest frosts, reminding me that other blooms will rise up in equally difficult conditions next spring.