Rushing Things

I turn the page of my botanical desk calendar

- white lilies. Not yet. I turn it back to September, pink hydrangeas.

Ours, planted by the shed, never bloomed, candy for deer,

But the foliage now is burgundy and green, an autumnal consolation.

We’ve vowed: no wood fires til October

No pellet stove til November

And no oil heat til Thanksgiving, at least.

Last Friday was damp and chill and socks and sweaters

and roast chicken for dinner didn’t do it.

I didn’t want to rush things but

We lit a fire and curled up on the sofa watching the flames.

Today is three minutes shorter than yesterday.

Tomorrow will be four minutes shorter than today.

Sunset has spun the clockhands back to 6:38 tonight.

So much for trying to hold off turning on lamps til after 7.

I haven’t put summer things away yet, nor pulled out things for fall.

(What summer? It rained 23 days in June.)

When I was a girl I couldn’t wait to be older. Five and three-quarters, I’d say, when asked my age. Or, “almost 10.” At 16 I was “mature for my age,” and for that I was kissed. After that, life followed in a rush.

I’m on the other side of the sea wall now, and bid to slow things down.

The days whiz by, and all I’ve done is putter and

Put meals on the table and load the dishwasher and unload it

And let cats in, and back out the door.

I thought to turn the calendar ahead

And thought better of it, for one more day.

September 30, 2009