Marking Time, Late September

Goldenrod, Greek Lakes State Park

We sat outside yesterday afternoon and noticed how the seasons shift. The ash tree that's grown up in the margins of the neighbor's lawn is beginning to yellow at the crown. Our basil is suddenly bruised by the chill. This morning I noticed for the first time in what feels like a long time the first featherings of frost.

Goldenrod, Green Lakes State Park

It's so easy to measure time by what hasn't yet been done, the ways I've fallen short, the alarm I've missed. I'm suddenly reminded of the Elizabeth Bishop poem:

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I wonder about the world around us - how much is intending to be lost but then be renewed. K, talking about planting bulbs, that strange act of faith in the cycle of time.