I love that September has arrived.
I love that Fall is just around the corner - Sept 23rd to be exact.
We've had a return of muggy weather today.
The weekend forecast is hot and muggy with rain.
I am looking forward to lovely fall days with turning leaves.
Orange is a color I really find soothing.
The right tone of orange of course.
I've taken next week off work.
I need a break.
I need to turn my brain and my alarm clock off.
I've added a few days to the long weekend.
We are going to spend time going for walks, lazing in bed talking,
reading, having breakfast together.
I'll start some knitting and try drawing some more.
I'm thinking of trying watercolor painting, we'll see.
I'm looking forward to not taking the bus or subway.
I know I'll wake up at the same time as I do everyday but it feels
so much better when you don't have to do anything.
I bought a new "vacation" book today.
The Help by Kathryn Stockett.
I have high hopes for it.
Another thing I'm kind of feeling the urge to do is
rearrange the furniture.
Adam hates that.
He likes things where they are.
I'll have to wake up extra early & do it while he sleeps ;)
To honor Autumn, here is some Keats (1795-1821):
TO AUTUMN.
1.
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.
2.
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.
3.
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.
