Sunday, November 19, 2017

Listen . . .
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.

~ Adelaide Crapsey

The wind is howling this morning; it will make short work of the few leaves that still cling to branches. It was odd, a few weeks ago when the snowpocalypse arrived, to be buried in the white stuff while the trees were still adorned in their autumn finery. It was as if summer gave way to winter with no autumn pause. Strange.

Now, the snow has gone from our community and there’s only rain in the forecast. Winter will arrive eventually, but for now it’s nice to have autumn back. I hope she stays for a good long while.

Today: church this morning and get started on a little Image transfer project this afternoon if Gerry is able to cut some wood for me.


I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.

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