Sunday, October 23, 2011

Summer's Bounty

Sunset on the farm

Lettuce row
The warm weather may be gone, but the memories of this past summer are still as fresh as the veggies I spent the past few months growing (and eating, and planting, and weeding, and weeding, and picking, and washing, and packing.... there's a lot more work that goes into your salad than you might realize!)

The light on the farm was just incredible... every day was another glorious sky, changing from opalescent pinks and oranges in the morning to bright, buttery mid-day and egg-yolk yellow afternoon, all culminating in a glorious riot of sunset before fading to star-crested indigo as the last rays faded across the lake.

We held the last CSA pickup in mid-October, before the frost took out the last brave greens, and and held a beautiful bonfire and potluck to celebrate. Looking back at the photos Scott took, I'm struck by how generous the land and people and animal & plant friends were to us this year.

It was hard work at times, but it was glorious. What a wonderful, whirlwind, madcap couple of seasons - and there's just more magic to come!

Here are a few highlights from the archives:

Above:Houdini the Wonder Chicken,
Escape artist nonpareil!
Below: Making her escape...

Evening over the greenhouse.
clouds at sunset
the sheep
rotating the pasture
still wet kale...

The farm - my summer home-away-from-home
Farmer Matt (one of our wonderful 
employer-teacher-mentors)...
probably bringing treats to the sheep.

just one of the glorious pick-your-own herbs.

freshly harvested for the CSA pickup 

Blessings and love,
Blackbird's Daughter

Monday, October 10, 2011

Indian Summer


a poem for the season...

Indian Summer

There’s a farm auction up the road.
Wind has its bid in for the leaves.
Already bugs flurry the headlights
between cornfields at night.
If this world were permanent,
I could dance full as the squaw dress
on the clothesline.
I would not see winter
in the square of white yard-light on the wall.
But something tugs at me.
The world is at a loss and I am part of it
migrating daily.
Everything is up for grabs
like a box of farm tools broken open.
I hear the spirits often in the garden
and along the shore of corn.
I know this place is not mine.
I hear them up the road again.
This world is a horizon, an open sea.
Behind the house, the white iceberg of the barn.
Copyright ©2007 Diane Glancy, from Asylum in the Grasslands.

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