rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Arrival

The air smelled of rain long before dawn. I'd left the windows open to let the house cool, then fell into a nap. I woke an hour later to the scent of wet pavement. Going outside, I found only a slight mist, but it had dampened the ground. It was not long before I heard water dripping from the leaves of the oak tree. I went back to sleep as a slow drizzle began to fall.

Waking just after noon, I looked out to see the street shiny and the bushes bejeweled with drops of water. Drizzle and mist alternated all the gray afternoon, until the clouds began to break up as evening approached. Now their remnants are catching the last light and glowing lavender and red. Though tomorrow will be warm and sunny, it finally feels like autumn.

And in the store, near the peaches and plums and nectarines, I saw pomegranates. Pomegranates! October is almost here.




Sunday Verse



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-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.

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 cider-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.

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