Cold November

It’s finally becoming cold enough to freeze the ground, and leave a good frost. I think tonight I’ll continue with this fall theme, set up so kindly by Mr. Yeats last evening.

I love the last lines of this poem, simply because it’s what I do when autumn drifts in, after a few months of indecision. Every evening I seem to be staying up late, reading, writing long letters, and wishing to be out wandering. (Though I won’t go out wandering the roads past sunset, because of the coyotes.)

“Autumn Day”

Lord: it is time. The summer was so immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials,
and let loose the wind in the fields.

Bid the last fruits to be full,
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now will not build one anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long time,
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.

RAINER MARIE RILKE

Autumnal Neglect.

I have left this little blog so unattended, I should be charged for neglect. However, whatever charges I may bring against myself still won’t give me anything to write about in this moment.

So for a start, I suppose it’s best to begin with the good words of others. Authors I have never read (and should have), and authors I have read every year, books that are old and new, and spring-board words that’ll bring me back.

“The Falling of the Leaves”

Autumn is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.

The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.

W.B. YEATS