It’s Saturday morning, and here in NC it’s feeling like fall…at least in the mornings. The air is crisp outside…which I like. Yeah…I’m one of those who favors temperatures in the 60’s and 70’s, so my two favorite seasons are Spring and Fall. The leaves haven’t begun to turn colors here yet, but they will soon…
Pretty soon this is what I’ll be seeing everywhere…
I’m lucky that I live in the mountains, and will be surrounded by such beauty shortly. The area that I live in gets lots of visitors when the leaves change colors. It’s good for the local economy, but better yet…it’s good for the soul to experience the quiet majesty that takes place.
My mom used to own a bed and breakfast about an hour from where I live now. Sometimes I’d help out on the busy weekends, and it was nice to see the change come over people after just a day or two. Some would arrive on a Friday evening looking stressed and weary, but by Sunday afternoon as they were making their way back home they looked more relaxed and peaceful. I hope that feeling stayed with them for at least a little while after they returned to their busy lives.
It’s easy to get caught up in all of life’s daily turmoil, but I hope all of you remember to stop and enjoy the good things in your lives as well.
Here’s one of my favorite poems for this time of the year…an ode to Autumn.
by John Keats
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.
Have a beautiful Saturday!