Today when I walked home I was confronted by the sight of the little slice of woods near my house mauled; I knew that the Farm was to do some work with the septic system--putting some new piping in down our road--but still felt really surprised to see to see the bushes torn up and piled. It felt funny to mourn for this little slice of nature for a moment, but I did; I guess I was really just mourning the fall, and the quickening pace of the oncoming sleepy season. I wanted to sit on the ground and grab fistfuls of dirt and dead leaves, somehow cling to the earth and will it to stay this way for just a little longer; will the fluffy-tailed, apple carrying squirrels to play in the sun and not fear the steady cooling; will these last few cold and beautiful pink October mornings into staying forever.
Stumbled upon this poem, which just felt right.
Men in overalls the same color as earth rise from a ditch. It's a transitional place, in stalemate, neither country nor city. Construction cranes on the horizon want to take the big leap,
but the clocks are against it. Concrete piping scattered around laps at the light with cold tongues. Auto-body shops occupy old barns. Stones throw shadows as sharp as objects on the moon surface. And these sites keep on getting bigger
like the land bought with Judas' silver: "a potter's field for burying strangers."
--Tomas Tranströmer, translated by Robert Bly