I wish it would rain. I had big plans to put in a few more trees and shrubs this fall, but with no rain in sight I don't know how I would keep such delicate expensive plantings alive. It feels ridiculous to be watering so steadily at this late date, but such is life.

The tomatoes are coming in fast, and I'll need to make soup or sauce today. Peppers and eggplant are still roaring, though the cucumber is on its last gasp and the beans are beginning to fade.

Yet fall is advancing steadily . . . leaves beginning to turn and fall, and the wheelbarrow crunching over them as I roll loads of firewood from the shed to the basement hatch. Lots more work to do there, but I got a start yesterday afternoon--tossing down a few barrows' worth and then stacking them in the cellar. I love the look of firewood, poised and waiting. I love to be ready for winter: the harvest in, the wood in, and let the storms begin.

Today is my sister's birthday, today I will get onto my mat, today I will walk over to Gretchen's to work on our class plans, today I will edit a manuscript and cook tomatoes and read about Josephine Baker. Today I will fidget over a poem and the dry sun will shine. Still, I feel bereft, as if I've woken up to find something missing. Something I've never seen before. Something I will never see again.