October blossoms
Sweet memories of summer
Here in real life time.
Frost, Snow, River, Mountains
We just got home after hiking to the summit of North Twin Mountain today. The trees on the horizon are black against the last light in the sky, the sun long gone below the horizon. And it’s only 7:33. More darkness coming.
But it was glorious in the mountains today. The Little River was running hard and clear over its bed of boulders, a color without color, the cleanest sheen of light green imaginable. I’ve written about this river before (poem below), the last time I hiked North Twin, when I was bagging the 4,000 footers. Today two of our friends on the hike bagged the peak for the first time. Once you finish your own list, there are always friends to accompany as they work on theirs.
The views were perfect — the full Presidential Range strung out from a ledge on the northeast side of the ridge, then the Franconia Ridge stretching south from our lunch spot on the western facing ledge. But the close views were beautiful too.
Last night was the first frost of the season, and once we got above 4,000 feet, we saw our first snow. Clumps of ice were falling out of the spruce trees and collecting in heaps of white on the green moss, already speckled with snow. But the sun was warm on the ledge, and on us, as we ate, and talked, trees across from us still holding glints of ice.
The Little River
There must be a story to a river
so wrongly named, so wildly big
in its crash of water and rock falling
from a fold of mountains, tricky
with its slick stones and ice needles thrust
over shallows like webs. We cross as if
stepping on the chest of a sleeping beast.
We find an old campsite, logs circling
a cold fire ring beside a green pool.
We listen as we make up stories, listen
to the confluence of gravity and water, wonder
how big is cruel enough not to be little.
September Haiku
Chiming crickets swell
Under morning fog blanket
Memory of trees.
Squam Lake Haiku
Flies dimple still lake
Shore pines drape gray granite rocks
Late sun sings summer.
First-Day-Post-Job Haiku
June’s peony heart
Breaks open summer’s sweet face
Intoxication.
Monday Morning Haiku
Peonies bowing
Buds bobbing upright in rain
Blossom abandon.
Haiku Habit
Still getting up and squeezing in a morning run before a day of work, still finding only a tiny space for language lust in my brain, thus the continued haiku habit.
Wild blue flag iris
Loon laugh warbling overhead
Morning rain relief.
Grazing Haiku
Morning horses graze
Calves stand at east pasture fence
Abundance ascends.
Low Light, Green Light, Pink Light
There’s been a tornado watch in southern NH this evening, and when we left work the skies were dark, we could hear distant thunder, and it was raining in Concord. A colleague had emailed me to say there was hail the size of softballs in Keene. I got out into the garden as soon as I got home, wanting to beat any coming storm to the perennial bed I’d yet to weed this season. And just to be sure it would rain, I watered all the new plants I’ve put in over the past few days.
But it didn’t rain, radar loops online show the storms blowing south of us, and now the light is low, feeding up from the sun below the horizon. Just moments ago the clouds were holding the light against all the late spring vegetation and the world outside the windows was green — not scary tornado green, but a soft, growing glow. The trees are tossing in the wind and now the clouds are catching the last bits of sun and burning pink and gold. The air is cool and smells like rain, but there is clear sky between the clouds and the dusk is deepening, turning the tall pines black.
Swimming
We swam in Long Pond today, our first open water swim of the season. Coming down to the water, the sun was low across the pond and full on summer hot. Two years ago the water didn’t warm up enough to swim until well into June and we were still wearing wet suits in July. Last year I heard from my neighbors, the second week in June, that they’d been swimming Memorial Day weekend. It’s been a hot week, so after a hot day of gardening, we thought we’d try it.
The water was dark and thick with pine pollen and plenty warm to swim. After a winter of crawling up and down the 25 yard pool at the Y, minding the lane, making room for other swimmers, turning every 30 seconds, turning, turning, chlorine scent on my skin all day, using up the boredom of the back and forth to try to zone out, it felt gloriously free to just swim. Arm out and up to the sky and turning my face to breathe and seeing the trees on the shoreline, swimming and swimming and swimming and only turning after covering the quarter mile width of the pond. This is swimming; this is summer.
Grace Mattern 