A few remaining leaves from nearly stark-naked trees flutter to the ground. Softly revolving, riding the wind, unhurried.
The sky is that particular November shade of Violet and Sherbet Orange.
The sun is just peeking through the trees. Glowing orange orb that is always just a bit out of reach, elusive to my searching lens.
A smarter person, or perhaps a Poet or Theologian could tell us much about how the sun being elusive is A Most Meaningful Metaphor… but I am but a Mother and sometimes an Artist , and often words elude me.
Who can rightly express the Tenderness of Five am snuggles under a quilt , a quilt that was created four generations ago?
Who can capture the early morning stirrings of sleepy teenagers headed straight toward the coffee pot? The kind ritual of how the 14 year old always refills his mother’s coffee cup first?
Or who can rightly explain the worth of rustic Homemade Pumpkin Scones , baked by a 16 year old?
Who can capture the feel of an eight year olds head firmly implanted into your chest, precious stillness of the morning, when they are the calmest they will be all the rest of their waking hours?
Or the way the 12 year old is the only dependably happy riser?
When we live with other people, we know their ways. Their unique expression of humanity .
This is a sacred trust, never to be broken.
And to describe it adequately is always just out of reach, elusive , vanity . Chasing the Sun with a camera.
And yet. These are the things that make up the Quiet , Dark , Mornings of November.