burrowing

November, now—how? Wasn’t it just summer? I have a tenderness for this time of year. I turn into a little mouse, burrowing into the nourishment of stillness and quiet rhythms. I’m still discovering my purpose, but I know how to sit quietly and watch the ducks squabble and dunk their heads in the creek. I know how to kiss my husband and make dinners for my friends and walk slowly and thank the purple mountains and care diligently for the things in my life and create magic at Christmas and carve a soft spot for my family and provide for my dog the things she needs and watch the leaves outside my window turn green-gold. The world is so hard; I want to be soft and yielding. When I’m old will I be sad or will I just be relieved to simply be?