Everything hints of autumn now. The drought has so stressed the plants and trees, many of the leaves have started to turn. Yesterday's windstorm dropped a carpet of leaves, the colchicum are in bloom early, and the garden seems ready to hunker down for winter. And yet, the rhubarb continues well past spring, the butterfly bush has new blossoms, and an hour ago we sampled our first grape harvest. Tomorrow the beloved and I celebrate 12 years. We feel at once like newlyweds and two people who have been together (and will be together) forever. Spring, summer, fall, winter. Time is nothing more than the mechanism by which we measure, and often hope to forestall, change.
Jill McCabe Johnson's research and writing practice follow the tradition of the French Medieval poetic form, the "chanson d'aventure" or song of adventure, where a writer walks into a new environment for enlightenment and inspiration.