September, you are heartily welcomed. While all seasons have their good points, autumn, by far, is my favourite. And yes, I know it isn’t technically autumn yet but here on the Atlantic coast of Canada there is a change in the air. I noticed this morning when I stepped outside a definite coolness to the air, and the coziness of when I returned indoors – the kitchen still lingering with the smell of pancakes.
September is a month of change. Gardens are mostly spent, fall harvesting is beginning. The leaves on the trees begin to shine with their uniqueness of colour. There is a crispness to the air that makes me think of apples and the smell of cut wood. The busyness of summer and all its hectic unpredictably is settling into a routine. It is neither too hot nor too cold. And while the days are growing shorter, to me it is a good excuse to wrap up the day early and have a moment to sit inside with a cup of tea and reflect on the blessings of the day. I am thankful to live in a land of changing seasons. This changing of the guard never fails to bring to mind John Keats’ ode To Autumn:
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.
morning dew on fall mums