Hello Gentle Reader
A few days ago, each of us woke up. To our awoken eyes, it is September again. The past few days of August, had been filled with a fluttering anxiety. The kind of anxiety that prey feels when it’s suspicious of being watched, with prowling eyes and empty stomachs, is at its most intense. Autumns orange eyes had been viewing the last days of summer keenly. Stores are packed with mothers and their grumbling children. Paper, pencils, pens – they take what they need. The kids try on clothes. Through the years, it’s becoming more personalized, with individual style. Still each of them is aware of their own ending freedom. Summer and time has betrayed them yet again. There is a tree in the back garden. It’s been anxiously awaiting the end. Turning its leaves yellow prematurely. The wild grass has lost its green waxy sheen. It is now thin and gold. Tuffs of oat like seeds, crowning their heads. Everything is sensing the impending, hibernation. The coats of animals are thicker and darker. Cows are fatter. Fields are beginning to ripen. Local corn is being sold. A golden vegetable, that each of us enjoy, during this special time of year. Still with baton of, yellow kernels, autumn is approaching. Its slipped its foot in the doorway. By October it will have taken residents.
Someone told me, a few days ago: “I hope we have a long fall [autumn].” I didn’t have the heart to tell, that person, that it doesn’t matter, if it’s a long autumn or not. Winter will take its debt either way. It’ll shorten the spring or it will shorten the autumn.
This last long weekend, was the last long weekend of summer. The last chance to go camping. The last change to enjoy those final moments of freedom. It’s the last hurrah. Hopefully it was spent well.
Kiki Dimoula wrote a poem titled: “Incompatibles.” – It’s a fitting poem for the current change in the season, and the restlessness that, one feels in the diming lights. The early dusks. The cooler evenings. The last fires of summer. The changing leaves of green to yellows fears and red eyes. To be discovered as translucent brown ghosts in the following spring.
“Incompatibles,”
All my poems about spring
remain incomplete.
Spring is always in a hurry,
my mood always long delayed.
That’s why I’m compelled
to complete
almost every poem I write about spring
with an autumn season.
By Kiki Dimoula, from “In Absentia,” (1958) – collected in “The Brazen Palagrist: Selected Poems.” -- All rights to Kiki Dimoula.
Its only in autumn do we truly miss spring.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
