I’m fascinated by the corn this year. I watched as the rich brown mother earth opened its womb and embraced the seeds, protecting them and nourishing them. I saw the tender shoots peek out and grow into little green toddlers, then teens, and now towering mature adults. They are time tanned, dried and brittle, and now cradle their own children. They wait for the coming harvest, when–in the cutting, stripping, and chopping–they will give up their young. And then return to the soil to nourish another generation.
Soon even the trees will be stripped, some storm tossed and broken. Prepared for rest.
It’s the season of change.
Even now the wind steals leaves and whips them into little tornadoes that swirl and snuggle the moss roses and shrubs–winter blankets. Branches click and cackle, and a mourning dove seems mesmerized by spinning water.
And I, who cradled and fed one generation, hold the next in my arms as we watch the changes through the window.
And I’m reminded that my own harvest is not far off.
Seasons and cycles.
Dust to dust.
Linking up with Cassandra Frear at Moonboat Cafe as we contemplate views from our windows.