I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman,
the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things
come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go,
not one lasts.
Still in bed while Ro-Ro irons, Wanna creates fashion stencils, Charly reads teen fantasy novels and the Strong, Silent One is out at a soccer training course. Have eaten two hot cross buns from the freezer stockpile. It's a bright, sharp Autumn day, small birds are making merry in the neighbour's trees and the morning shadows reaffirm the unstitched potential of the hours ahead.
After five days off and not much to show for it, I'm thinking that I need to take a good dose of long service leave to create order, read, devote myself fully to homemaking and set my own rhythm. But I know that I probably won't.
There have been geography assignments to work on (ask us anything about aquifers around Lake Chad), Girl guide sleep-overs in advance of the Anzac Day parade and hours upon hours of shopping for winter clothes (don't ask us about dreadful, over-priced fashion boutiques in the mall). It takes true grit to search through racks of flimsy, inappropriate garb for the rare stylish and durable piece. We had only limited success thus confirming my view that fashion buyers need more mothers on their teams.
It's the weather for oven-baked goodness and warm interiors. I've suggested knitting to occupy the youngest but now realise, having retrieved the wool supplies and needles from the top cupboard, that she is looking to me for guidance. So much for self-sustaining fun. It would take me hours to teach myself first. Hours that I don't have but also hours that I will ever get back.
Carl Sandburg, 'Autumn Movement'.