Last night, in one of my contentedly melancholy moods, I found myself singing this contentedly melancholy song, and I stepped out onto the porch to share the lyrics with the woods:
Although there are many, I look for no one, no one but me
I search for things that are taking me high and far out of reach.
But this is the place I will call my home
I live with the lies and the fear all alone.
All I have to feel is my loneliness
Nothing in the end except an empty chest
And nothing lasts forever.
And I stepped out into a snowstorm! Heavy flakes were falling all around, the first of the new season. They were coming so thick they obscured everything but themselves. And inner and outer came together for a moment.
The snow did not accumulate, but flurries continued intermittently throughout the night and during the next day.
I had brought in the final harvest just before the snow fell; another twenty pounds or so of tomatoes, mostly green ones, which I hope to ripen indoors. I took down the tomato-cages, stacked them in a corner, and tossed the plants into the firepit, and quickly what had been a garden became just another patch of bare ground. I did much of the work by the light of the full moon, for I had been working all day, helping someone plant an orchard. But I could tell it was time to shut down the garden – the air was bitterly cold on my hands. Sure enough, that night as the snow fell we had our first deep freeze. When I came out in the morning the ferns were all dead, and all my water-basins were covered by a crust of thin ice.