autumn

despite the 90 degree weather today, it's still shifted to autumn for me. The evening's are cool after the sun goes down, the air less oppressively moist, and the cicadas are tapping out their last songs for the year. No leaves have turned yet (unless from drought) but the Dogwoods are sporting their red seeds, the Crepe Myrtle's are starting to fade and the grass isn't growing so quickly with or without rain.

I've got nothing of real interest to say at the moment, since I'm not as willing to shift into personal mode here, but I do welcome fall as I do spring. Even here in the south, Summer and Winter are too extreme, too much for me most days and I far prefer spring and fall.

So, I'll bring you some Sara Teasdale instead and a nice cup of cinnammon tea

September Midnights
by Sara Teasdale

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.

The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.