Shy and busy meadow mouse, scamper to your tunnel house
Something in the wind says, “Scurry! Seasons change; it’s time to hurry.
Days grow short and nights grow cold; eat as much as you can hold
Tunnel down and burrow deep; pass the winter wrapped in sleep.
This was a short poem I wrote a long time ago about autumn. I was thinking this morning of how the maple outside my window on the world has changed with the seasons. Right now, its green and orange leaves are sparse on the tree; most of them have fallen.
I’m not ready for winter yet; plants must be brought inside, a storage building must be painted. I think preparing for changing seasons is an inheritance from my farming ancestors. I feel as if everything must be tucked away and made as cozy as possible for the coming cold months.
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