Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
"For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together.
For nature, it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad."
- Edwin Way Teale
Here is some of my bounty. Canned tomatoes and salsa. I have already frozen bags of green beans and peppers. My friend Joanne was visiting and helped me clear the garden beds. I know it was a little early, that the tomatoes, green beans, and cucumbers were still producing but they were on the last hurrah and I knew I would be leaving town soon and unable to tend them. I left the squash, peppers, cantaloupe, herbs, and flower, but many of the beds are now barren so I'll cover them for the coming winter waiting to be planted next spring.
I always feel nostalgic during "Indian Summers" and "Autumn". I'm not sure why that is? The cool nights when the extra quilt comes out and covers the sheet and lone bedspread of summer. When the windows start getting closed and the fog drifts up the mountain.
"Touch of Autumn"
Morning dawns overcast on my world.
Forlorn doves cry as the Indian Summer slips away.
Autumn leaves shiver like plastic flags in a used car lot.
Drifting fog hides my view of the bay.
Soon I'll smell of woodsmoke and nostalgia,
wishing for warmer days and abundant sunshine.
Snuggling under blankets of comfort
as I stoke the fire and sip red wine.
Dreams of far away, exotic places,
tropical paradise and saunas of you,
to warm my desperate, desolate soul
with the brighter times I knew.
© l.a.s.words 1999