To whomever left the great bouquet of parsley in the garden—

thank you.

We heard some engine sound from far across the field

and went to see

and saw

a tractor, red, turning soil into silk

tilling long, slow rows and turning long, slow turns

and with each turn the garden turned from crumpled earth to silk.

And there before the tractor was

the parsley.

A great mound of green—

a beacon green amidst a sea of soil.

And I imagined rabbits

dancing

holding hands in the light of last Sunday’s round orange moon

praising parsley sacred as the cows of India—

so sacred it should go untouched all through the frosts

and through the snows of winter.

Untouched—

but then there was that tractor, turning

plowing slow rows, slow.

And so I stepped into, onto, unto the unturned earth

and took

your parsley (sacred parsley)

just before the tractor turned its turn

to mow.

So.

If you would like one last bite of this year’s parsley—

sacred parsley—

sacred as the cows of India—

parsley praised by

rabbits far and wide—

please, do come visit. 

We have some in our fridge.

We shall be eating it

and feeding it to friends

and to family

and to rabbits who dance

by the light of the hunter’s moon.

This museum, so close, is one of the things that makes our location in Shelburne so amazing.

Someday, there will be a last visit for ever and ever.

I hope this was not it.

While Iris is at school, Akiva studies volume.

Which cars fit into which trucks?

How will they all get where they need to go?

Later, I take an opportunity to photograph myself with my son.

While I try to point my fancy camera at us, he just goes ahead and looks cute.

Last winter, all the apple trees at the museum had their low branches pruned to keep people from picking their fruits.

And among the dozens of apple trees at the museum, there was only one tree full of apples this autumn.

Which, without a picker, left us very little to pick at all. On the ground, a few old apples lay in various states of decay.

Apples in various states of decay acquire unique flavors and textures, interesting to explore with the palate.

We did a little exploring.

Uncle Dan visited.

He brought us apple picking.

He and Iris picked a lot of apples!

Akiva appreciated their efforts.

“Apom-bay! Apom-bay!” he said.

Dan is the one who figured it out: “I think he’s trying to say ‘apple.'”

You’d think I’d have found that obvious.

*   *   *

Later, we took Dan for a walk. He didn’t end up in any photos, tho. Sorry, Dan!

Birth, Death, Resurrection.

This is my religion.

It is what my mother taught me.

She taught me how to resurrect

bones.

Meat.

Weeds.

Leaves.

Scraps.

Scat.

And now my daughter asks:

“Will this go back to Earth?”

Devotion:

this is what I care for.

Faith:

I have no doubt.

What we do in this small temple,

it is righteous.

It is holy.

Decomposition is life.

I decompose.

…around the block

through the little path

into the community garden

to see

what has changed with the season

then on

and on…

I have been finding it rather difficult to take photos lately. Akiva is the age that Iris was when she started following photographic composition instructions. He is also the age of Iris when she was, quite regularly, telling me BEFORE she needed to pee. (Harumph. Not after.) Iris listens and does as she is told. Akiva lets us know what we should do and where we are supposed to go. Sometimes I can get Akiva to follow direction by trying to convince Iris to tell him what to do. She’s generally more successful than I am. He would rather not do anything without her, and he would like to do everything she does. And more.