On my wanderings I cross the river: so fresh and ever flowing. I can't resist the urge to spit, to see it fall. I look for quiet deer along the edge, not today. The harvest is done and the tiniest sunflower didn't get to fully mature. I keep walking and behind the Rosebud sign are some wasp Christmas trees. I name them so for their narrow waists! There's so much to see. Every day. I'm grateful I'm out in it. Soon it will be dark and cold to venture out, so now is the time. Like Frederick the little mouse, now is the time to store colors, feelings, and memories for the long cold winter ahead; to make poetry then out of what is taken in now. So I store, I treasure, and hope to remember in a time of future headache and cloudy vision.
I return home and Weston is in the window. My photo is multilayered: Four year old bright eyes, tired bearded father in background, and morning outdoors and jacketed mother reflected from outside. I am reminded of Paul's words. Now we see as in a mirror, dimly, but then we shall see fully --face to face. Oh, to only get glimpses and pine for more. This curiosity, when we tune to it, keeps us hungry for the eternal.
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