O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

~ Robert Frost, “October”

Early, I opened the front door, Charlie and Suzi ran ahead of me, and I was flooded in golden light. The ferns, all the ferns I’ve planted along the front walk, and in the center of the driveway, were bright gold, and the sun was up behind the low clouds, lighting them, and the world was damp, very damp after the dry desert, and it was dizzying, and lovely and I was glad to be home. My walking sticks were missing. I looked around all the places, front door, back door, shed. . . where were my walking sticks? I checked my car. No clue. Someone moved them? I texted Frank. He responded right away: you left them by the arch, didn’t you? Yes! Of course I did! And I asked him to leave them there. So, we walked to the river, and there were my sticks, where I left them. My desert retreat behind me, the foliage welcomed me home. We rambled in all the color. I had not yet finished writing my prompt for my Wednesday group and needed to go home, but I didn’t hurry. It was wonderful to climb the stairs, be welcomed back by the Farm Pond Writers, to be in the room together, reading poems about October, sharing the blessings of October, probing our thoughts and feelings about October. When I was in New Mexico I couldn’t imagine being back – I was so immersed in my quiet, my process. Suddenly, back in the circle, of family and writers and dogs, and the autumn leaves, I am entirely here. After group I go home and light a fire against the damp, in the living room and work beside it, warming my bones. Three writers send me their writing today and I happily respond, so glad to be connected to someone’ else’s inspiration and process of discovery. Charlie and Suzi curl beside me, warmed by our fire.