never in all my days

The electrician who was working in the attic has left a legacy
of fine white plaster dust
on my desk

third revision of the 27th draft
of the book i have been rewriting for eight years

and also a 26 month old son,
who could also be considered 2 and a half
or roughly 780 days old

all of the pumpkins are ripe in the garden, bright orange, uniformly,
which is unusual
for mid-september

today we hucked rocks into the Pilchuk
there came drifting down the autumn sweet smell
of cottonwoods
and briefly
time was not linear

i am making dinner,
baked breaded vegan chicken breast (ha) from scratch,
garlic mashed potatoes and sauteed
zuke with cherokee purple tomatoes

leftover plum cobbler for dessert

the kid is shrieking at the dogs
and speaking in sentences
and considering the world with a furrowed brow
he already sees more than the rest of us put together.
he has begun to talk about the past
and he seems quite prepared
for a future that will be happening Now

you’re beautiful
to me
a chorus affirms in the background

i have never harvested so many ripe garden tomatoes
in all my days


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Filed under autumn weather, basic goodness, Family, Garden, History, meditation, memory, motherhood, Ordinary, outside

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