66 seasons sees me in its cycles This Samhain In my cycle, my circle, I go to feed the stove, with wood from trees, that give me fire, that keep this box warm. A box made from parts, cheap parts, joists and beams, floors of particle board, floors of cheap vinyl, worn, torn, a box covered in vinyl siding, stained with molded tree pollen, it is warm inside and the last of October has been dark and chill and wet. Inside the lamps are lit in mid day, with carried electricity. I type these words with carried electricity. I can do without. I know how to, we women who work when we are tired, we know how to do without. Yet my box is full of stuff, and the animal companions, who live and die with me, on land that the bank still owns, in a box warm and enough for us. I had to learn that myself, because I cannot remember anyone ever asking, “do you have enough?” Unless it was related to time. Do you have enough time to get this done? No, I am sure I do not. I have enough time to cook an egg, to walk the dogs, to take a bath. I am sure there is not enough time to set it all straight. So much before the ground freezes, and there will be ice, and it will freeze to places I will not see until it leaves. But my mind is not on that, not today, not today when I check on temperatures, begin the daily circle of care. No one and nothing that I care for, and I only care for that which has life, will survive the endless spinning. Death, with skull faces and marigolds for remembrance, a honeyed tea and sweet will be pissed out, flushed. Children will dress up in masquerade and be given candy by strangers, and that is how the New Year comes in, arriving in an early sunset. there was enough time to get here, just enough. The end of what life was lived through Springs and summer, arrives at the Inn just in time to settle for the night. The sheets are cold wet leaves, mud and dying off things, full of wood lice . There is no need to eat when all is sleeping and dying. Here is a bowl of candy for the spirits that roam tonight. Honor, it is all so honorable the way nature spins itself, that even in death, she is graceful and asks nothing. The deep cold that I think is eternity is just a thought, an inadequate thought .