Hours Gained

I sat on a moss cushioned log.
It was beautiful and surprisingly comfortable.
The stream gurgled beside me and I
exhaled.
I heard the boys upstream building a dam.
The sounds of a dam being built are chiefly
laughter and puppy yaps.
Rosy cleaned out a tributary downstream.
Her voice, clear and high as the autumn sky,
"Summer's over, now it's fall, just the nicest time of all."
I smiled and watched as a sudden pant of wind
rained golden leaves. Her voice pipped again,
"Down, down, down, leaves of red and gold and brown,
come falling, falling down."
Eventually she joined me on the log, leaned into me,
golden head on my arm.
An afternoon passed and I gained
the hours.
I held the autumn wind in my hand for a moment.
The stream paused in it's rippling journey and I felt it's stillness.
A five year old remained inactive next to me.
Miracles surely.
Later that night there would be cookies and stories.
Grant would tell me, "It always feels like Christmas when we're with you."
And even later,
I would lean my dark head into my husband's shoulder,
and listen to the rain on the roof.
And sleep.

Rowan and Gypsy

Dam building!

Rose on the log waiting for me!

Story time!

Harvest time!

The exceeding beauty of the earth, in her splendour of life, yields a new thought with every petal. The hours when the mind is absorbed by beauty are the only hours when we really live, so that the longer we can stay among these things so much the more is snatched from inevitable Time. -Jefferies