I feel a burden. All the splendors of autumn are falling away.  Beladen as the Germans say, a laboring of the thing, this burden which I mentioned before.  The carpet has been pulled up revealing blighted boards, a puzzling floor-plan  no one can make sense of it, nobody tries. Time itself has traveled a long way, in manner of speaking, and has smashed or picked all my windows and doors.  My home is now an open space and people casually stroll in and with puzzled expressions gaze at the furnishings, the artwork, the contents of the refrigerator   Each one comments on my lack of housekeeping, dust and clutter; have they no manners? In the short of it most visitors have learned by necessity to find and use each exit and promptly.  I would say as much myself but would rather rely upon nature to infuse her manners gently.  I'm grateful that no one need know what an impertinent host I really am.

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