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Risa Bear, autumn, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeRisa Bear

Polyhymnia

walks between the beds critical of eye, noting the way the leaves of corn have curled upon themselves, rattling in hardly any breeze at all. They'd like to make believe it's Autumn now, would they? Playing at getting past the part where seed heads form, waving their silky hair, and then depart, leaving the leaves bereft of any purpose but to leave this world -- except, of course, they don't: that is the gift of mulch. She brings the hose and couples to its end a yellow whirligig, made to sing the holy song of water to the leaves. Today, green fullness. Tomorrow, living grain.
CheerfulRisa Bear

What Rain Is For

The last three summers, as she recalls them, Her heavy-clay bit of earth opened hexagonally; Into the depths she stared, seeing dry darkness So desiccated, she fancied worms and millipedes In despair had decamped, seeking other worlds. She poked at crevasses with her stick, finding bottom Well deeper than twelve inches. Not knowing How to garden in any but a rain forest, she Attacked books and websites for some scheme The budget could be stretched for: shade cloths, Raised beds, huge-log hugelkulturs, keyhole beds. All were possible, but her hands, old, worked In fits and starts; her money allocated elsewhere. Now she startles, looking at her night sky, so steeped
ContemplativeRisa Bear

The Things to Do

The things to do: bring an egg from her Hens, a found apple, beet leaf, cat's-ear foliage, Ensuring freshness even in October. The skillet she heats, oil frisking. Here's egg: break yolk, turn once or twice; Insert chopped fruit and greens, with salt and pepper; Now turn again, wait, remove from heat, Give all to a spelt wrap. As she sits to her meal, a Sun rises, invests her eastern window, spills in To caress and warm six thick maple boards Of her grandmother's table. Whatever remains to be Done's already forgotten: the meal an emblem Of all her morning cared to be.
ContemplativeRisa Bear

The First Few Fires

The first few fires of autumn laid by me Here in this stove aren't much; I acknowledge Even the hummingbird's still caressing blooms, so I Feeling only a brief dawn chill, build accordingly. In thickets of summer I range about, Ratcheting my long-handled pruner among stout sticks, Stealing from oak and ash, letting in a little light. These I pile in the long room where that stove squats. Fueling it with paper and a stack of twigs, admiring Even the least hints of gold and vermillion therein, We sit back, warm enough for one dark cup of tea. For awhile; then day overtakes us, ready In sweater and chore coat to see to hens; Really, we shuck those soon enough, sweat on our
ContemplativeRisa Bear

Nothing Can Stand Still

Nothing can stand still. If it were to do so absolutely, I could not see it; if I were to cease scanning, I could not then see; therefore change is all. These were my thoughts as I walked a dog, watching my year run down. Apples were falling; I chose one to eat. Hips blushed fiercely; I stuffed my pockets full. Ash and maple and willow turned and turned. Restless mice and voles risked their all for seeds. We reached the river; a trout rose, an osprey plunged; they met and flew as one. An osprey will turn a trout head first in flight, you know -- for improved aerodynamics. I disbelieve it; surely the bird is kind. It turns the trout to show it what's to come.
SadRisa Bear

It Is Quiet Out There

It is quiet out there now. She Takes her hat, stick and forage bag, Into which she slips her pruners, then Slides her feet into green clogs, feeling Quite exurban-agrarian, ready to look Under brush piles and into cottonwoods -- In every place that might consent to harbor Even a hint of birds' music. They have flown, The silence tells her; those that haven't died. Out along the roadside she waves to cars, Understanding her neighbors have to drive, Then pockets up her apples, rose hips, leaves That now are turning away from green: cat's ear, High mallow, chicory, plantain, sow thistle, her Ears pricked for passing flights of geese. Really, thinks she to herself, there ought
SadRisa Bear

These Are Highlands

These are highlands, in a region of highlands, so not especially notable. It takes a long time to get there, though the graveled road is short enough; park and walk -- not far, but bring a lunch and water. Sign in; it's wilderness according to the kiosk and its map. Immediately you have shade. These are Douglas fir, mountain hemlock, perhaps some red cedar. Beneath, on both sides the trail, a scattering of vine maple, ocean spray, rhododendron, and, in the draws, willow. Sometimes bear grass is in flower; not this year. As late season turns, first vanilla leaf, then devil's club, then red huckleberry, then the blue, will shade through gold to sienna to cranberry: cool nights.
ContemplativeRisa Bear

A Path

Along the new trail, built by no one I knew, acorns had fallen by thousands, more than enough to leave creatures dazed by too much fortune. Conkers have tumbled among them, each experimentally chipped and then rejected by some set of tiny teeth. Hazel nuts were better, it seems. Should an adder pass en route to denning, amid this rich mast, amid this late fall of goldened leaves of ash and beech, I might merely step aside, unalarmed as any fattened squirrel. Across the pasture, I remember, past the partly shaded ferns, cowslips, bluebells, buttercups of spring and summer, where falling water, catkin-patterned, drowned out the cygnet's cry in an otter's teeth (witnessed
RomanticRisa Bear

Grace

They do not always sit with an easy grace, the aging: in afternoon light, even in October, cracks invade her clear skin, showing in relief, and he knows dismay, seeing her, his own once simple face crowding itself, as when a life within doors runs out of thought. Yet, sober as this renders him, he will not turn away from her to seek some easier play: there is no win or lose, no hunt, no race, no battle. His eyes would disrobe her, for she is to him more than she has been, and he would know all, even here, as passers pass, not seeing what his eyes see; but he will wait on her clear sign that this is welcome, even from his gaze,
ContemplativeRisa Bear

Sixty-Nine

In summer I rest beneath maple leaves. In fall I rake them for the garden, to grow and eat next year last summer's shade.

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