After waking up the next favorite part of my day was going to bed. I curled my back in a yoga twist and lay facing the glow of the bistro lamps on the chicken coop.

I woke and slept hard: shot out of bed like a bean sprout, sloughed off like corn silk. Swaddled in the dark on both sides of the day ticking off the minutes and calendar squares.

Getting my clippers out and cutting down the garden mint. The Sisyphean act of sucking up leaves in the tractor and emptying them in the compost. All the browns and yellows like confetti.

I would often go back to that morning I left for Mount Rainier when it was so early and dark and we learned Ozzy Osbourne just died. I’d gotten my camping permit and was climbing the mountain in my car up that long curling road with the wondrous views literally banging my head to Black Sabbath. It felt like the summer would never end.

But it does and that’s worth celebrating. We roll the seasons up the hill and back again.

A time now for lentils simmering and warm spices, the blower fan on the wood fire stove. Some seasons are like getting up and others, going down.

Categories: Creative Nonfiction, Poetry, prose

Tags: Poetry, prose, short form, spirituality