The changing of the seasons alway get me outside more often than any other season.
Every fall, I say, fall is my favorite season, yet when spring finally comes around, it’s my absolute favorite. I guess I can say that a changing season is my favorite.
The last three Autumns I have stitched a linen dish cloth I picked up at Anthropology for a friend, Nina Bagley, who was born in October. I finished it this year, adding the words below from Mary Oliver. I absolutely love this poem.
Song for Autumn
In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.