Fall Frolics
O earth that hast no voice, confide to me a voice, O harvest of my lands -- O boundless summer growths, O lavish brown parturient earth -- O infinite teeming womb, A song to narrate thee. - Walt Whitman How to sing the praises to a landscape so vibrant and alive that you feel it infusing energy and abundance into your very soul? I cannot correctly tell the tale, and yet this is what nature gives us, every time we venture forth, without question, without words. Walt Whitman addresses this dilemma well: "Air, soil, water, fire -- those are words." There is a love beyond love, there is a story underneath all the stories. The land, the bones of the dead, the heart of the earth, the endless heartbeat narrative of life. "I swear I begin to see little or nothing in audible words, All merges toward the presentation of the unspoken meanings of the earth, Toward him who makes dictionaries of words that print cannot touch." Last Friday