there is something about autumn that softens me. as if something tight inside me loosens and slows down. it makes me long to be outside.
for most, winter is a time to hibernate; for me, it is summer. i hate the heat. i rush to get from place to place so that i am out in the heat as little as possible. i have to keep my windows closed and the ac full blast. this morning, the ac is off and the windows are open. i love open windows, especially when the morning sun is spilling in. even in winter i want my windows open and will wrap myself tightly in a blanket to stay warm just to keep the windows open.
the wind is whispering gently through the masts and my boat, like a caring mother, is rocking me in her arms. the sounds of the wind against the water and through masts is like a water symphony. i love it. i wouldn't want to live anywhere but on the water or at least very near it.
we don't have much of a change of season here and i've always told myself i would slip away for a weekend once to the east coast to see autumn paint her arrival. boston must be lovely in fall? maybe next year....
i like fall and winter wardrobe too and am waiting patiently to put away my summer threads and pull out cooler weather ones. :)
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'erbrimm'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,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd 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 barrèd 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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.