All Things Being Equal

Summer passes us by. She has left us for the year, to return in her own time. The wise man of Autumn, with his wry and knowing smile is walking down the road. He whispers on the wind, and wanders through the wheat, savoring the last days of drowsy sunshine in an afternoon respite under the Black Oak's wide-reaching arms.

Today the old man of Autumn bid us a passing, "Good Day." In fact, this past week has been a welcome preview of things to come. The air has grown more crisp. The scent of smoke is again in the air (without the fear of wildfire). Wet pavement and pine needles mingle together in a potpourri of memories.

I'm ready for Fall. It is by far my favorite season of the year. It is the time of harvest and feasting. It is a time for contemplation. Consider the growing season coming to close, and the cycle of death/rebirth that will be here again soon.

Apples.
Fires in the hearth.
The changing of leaves.
Mugs of steaming Market Spice tea.
Walks in the park.
Rain.
Thunderstorms.

The Autumnal Equinox officially tips off at 9:51 am on Sunday the 23rd. Enjoy the season while you have it. Some people say that Spring and Summer days pass by too quickly. I disagree. Autumn is by far the most elusive of the Seasons. He comes in on Summer's trailing dress, and skips down the road by the time Old Man Winter's frosty breath can be felt on your neck. Take some time to get to know the Goodman, Autumn. His season is a treasure trove of memory for those who are willing to invest.


Read John Keats' ode to Autumn, that you might better recognize him when he passes you on the path.

To Autumn

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-eves 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.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.