Once upon a time I was very effective at multi-tasking. We women joke about how it is our default setting. But as I age, I just find I have less talent for it. Today is a case in point. I overslept, which meant I missed my dawn writing practice. Which in turn made me feel out of joint.  Also under-cafeinated. I needed to make a 9 am appointment and then a 10:30 appointment and then a 12:30 pick up. Also, make it to the post office before 1pm, when it closes for lunch. I skidded in at 12:54 and had it all wrapped up by 1pm.

By which time I felt ready for a lie down! Living in the country we tend to cluster our daily ‘missions’ to make sure that we minimise our auto emissions. Also, to keep the auto fuel bill reasonable. Where we live it is eight miles to the doctor’s surgery, and twenty miles to anywhere for a ‘big shop’ – clothing stores, shoe shops, the wool shop, plant pots and anything that is not obtainable is our, admittedly very good, local Spar shop in the village. So this multi-tasking on daily missions sometimes feels like the logistics for military maneuvers.  I used to be able to do it without thinking twice. Now I  think twice before launching myself into any day.

It’s tiring. And I have been feeling my age lately. It has been pointed out to me (by someone who is only three days younger than me) that this is now the wintertime of our lives. Which is a thought to conjure and ponder.

Today’s poetry daily includes a featured picture of my very favourite tree in all the world. Because sometimes your favourite tree needs to be celebrated.

In the Winter of a Lifetime

I want a den down a hole
like the one that is the portal
at  the base of the beech tree.

I'll use sphagnum for a cushion
that is plumped up ten inches thick.
a bolster made of lichen.

I'll live like any cunning woman.
I'll spin thread from scraps in the hedge.
Knit a shawl of angel's hair.

I'll commune with the dark night-
the owl, cat and hare. I will wane
like Mother Moon.  Until comes

the day of no rising dawn.
The owl will announce my demise.
The beech tree will close its door.

Copyright © 2018 Bee Smith

3 thoughts on “Winter

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