“Winter Twilight” by Anne Porter:
On a clear winter’s evening
The crescent moonAnd the round squirrels’ nest
In the bare oakAre equal planets.
poem for an autumn day
Today I just want to share a lovely poem, “Autumn” by Rainer Maria Rilke (trans. by Jonathan Cott).
As from the distance, leaves are falling.
Fall as if the far-off gardens fade into the sky;
They fall with gestures of relinquishing.
And through the night there falls the pressing earth
Down past the stars in lonesomeness.
We are all falling. There, this hand falls too.
Occurring to us all: just look around you.
Still there is one who holds us tenderly
As in his hands we fall, fall endlessly.
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eight times around the sun
Happy Birthday to my sweet, sweet Lillia. It seems almost impossible to believe it’s been eight years since I first met those wide, wondering eyes of yours. And yet, here we are. In the past year you endured many changes; a new school, a new house, and a new baby brother. You have done it all with grace. I have so much to learn from you, and I love you so much.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
~ William Wordsworth
signs of fall
Fall is officially here, both inside our home, and outside in the world. Summer is my favorite season, so fall always brings with it a little sadness. I miss the sun setting late in the evening, the lazy days by the town pool, the sounds of crickets chirping, and the general relaxed feeling of the warmer months. Although they have their own unique qualities and benefits, I am always the last to welcome autumn days. Still, there is some beauty to be seen as the days get cooler, and we begin to prepare for the long, cold months ahead. What does fall mean to you?
On fields o’er which the reaper’s hand has pass’d
Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun,
My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind
And of such fineness as October airs,
There after harvest could I glean my life
A richer harvest reaping without toil,
And weaving gorgeous fancies at my will
In subtler webs than finest summer haze.~Henry David Thoreau
