Through the Dark

"Will I ever be able to find rubber work boots in my size?"

The yearly approach of autumn is signalled by such dilemmas. Suddenly, the faithful duct-tape of summer fails to measure up to the promise of torrential rains. This is the Wet Coast of British Columbia. We must be prepared.

A blanket of a different wool, the first signs of autumn are unmistakable. Hesitant mornings, a midday light that is low and forgiving, and a faint detection of decomposing leaves. If one listens very carefully and quietly, the slow retreat of chlorophyll from the leaves can be heard. Quiet as silk flowing over an open hand.

With half-hearted anticipation, I find myself counting the impending winter months over and over on the fingers of my hand, absentmindedly losing track.

 One. Two. Three. Four. Three. Four. One.



















Equally repetitive, the challenging work of autumn has a delayed result. Up to our knees and elbows with mud, we plant thousands of bulbs, placing  them deep into the ground so that they, too, can emerge from the dark.


One. Two. Three. Four. Three. Four. One.