They slipped over the border, refugees seeking asylum from cold, windy dusks. They don’t ask much, just to rest and fade in some warm, dry comfort. Their crispy, leathery husks lay around, here and there, nowhere really, in the stairwell to the basement by the side door, or near the front door. They don’t say a word, and I don’t mind having them.

They remind me of my comfort, being able to close doors and keep out Weather. I like having them, guests from another world, outside, from a place I experience only when I choose, for the most part. A place I can view through the live, TV screen of my window, watching the onieric scenes of tempest and flare or torpid, white heat or perhaps dreams of sugar plum fairies dancing across diamond sheets. From this cocoon my sun is just right, and frigid, locked air is just a thought, or a line in this phrase, but never asks me for my passport.

So these lost, migrant leaves may motel here freely , at least until my mother visits next week.

There once was a man who loved to garden. But he didn’t want to garden just anywhere, not in weedy fields, not in rough plots, not in public, busy places. No, he wanted to choose where he gardened, because he knew he would devote his whole being to the garden once he chose his plot.

He searched and searched. He traveled the world. But few corners offered the things he sought. He waited and searched and waited.

The place he sought would be unique. It would have craggy ruins of human history, left over structures of lives past. It would also have different kinds of weather; sometimes stormy, gray, cold and windy and sometimes sunny, warm and just plain mellow. He liked the variety. He also wanted to be far from busy city, with all its selfish and frantic people, but not too far. He liked culture, theater, music, good food and wine. Continue reading →