Wednesday, September 26, 2007
It's the onset of autumn but the days are hot as the Indian Summer lingers on. I was out looking at my garden spot and it looks so forlorn. The raised beds were so old and falling apart that my son has dismantled them for me and dug up all the plants with only a few straggling bearded iris strewn around. The bricks and stepping stones that lined the pathway are all stacked off to the side. It's usually a lovely garden but I'll have to start all over in the spring. I have to let it go this time of year as I get busy doing art shows and working in my studio.
Emily Dickinson [1830-1886]
These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, -
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!