Yesterday morning we dug the dahlias, and in the afternoon I manured the ground for planting next spring. Fluffed and raised from digging, the space looks like a new grave. This morning, the tubers having been cleaned, separated into smaller clumps, and dried, we tucked them away in peat moss for their winter nap in the garage.
The apricot tree is bare and fruit buds for next year’s crop are plentiful.
The vine, blueberry, and fig tree are also bare.
It has not frozen yet this fall.
The handle on the faucet by the garden needs to be replaced.
At the rate of four or five pages a day, I am still reading the second volume of the Library of America edition of Emerson’s journal. I have been away from Thoreau for several months. Now and again, Emerson mentions Thoreau, sometimes favorably, others time not. But it is still the mid-1840s. Thoreau is in his twenties, and Emerson is not quite the age Thoreau will be at his death in 1862. Emerson died in 1882. Would either be surprised if they were to learn that the Civil War never did end? Probably not.
December 1, 2021. Late afternoon.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces