52/217: Late

[rejectomorph]

It has been revealed that autumn will be starting out with a near record high temperature Tuesday, at 101. Guess how happy I am with that. (That's right, not at all.) I've been out of sorts today, even more than usual, and I'm very glad that it's a Sunday and I won't have to go out and check the snailmailbox. It's about 90 out there right now, and I want nothing to do with it. I'm sort of hungry, but don't really feel much like eating.

There is plenty of stuff on hand, but none of it appeals to me. Maybe I'll dig out one of the frozen entrees crowding my freezer and microwave it later. When I don't feel like eating I feel even less like cooking. But a meal is my excuse for beer, so I'm bound to eat at some point. After that I'll get to sleep again, and since I've been awake since a bit before dawn I'm really looking forward to that more than anything else, even the beer. But before all or any of that I have to finish this, so here, suitable to the season.




Sunday Verse

Late September

by Amy Lowell


Tang of fruitage in the air;
Red boughs bursting everywhere;
Shimmering of seeded grass;
Hooded gentians all a'mass.
Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind
Tearing off the husky rind,
Blowing feathered seeds to fall
By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.
Beech trees in a golden haze;
Hardy sumachs all ablaze,
Glowing through the silver birches.
How that pine tree shouts and lurches!
From the sunny door-jamb high,
Swings the shell of a butterfly.
Scrape of insect violins
Through the stubble shrilly dins.
Every blade's a minaret
Where a small muezzin's set,
Loudly calling us to pray
At the miracle of day.
Then the purple-lidded night
Westering comes, her footsteps light
Guided by the radiant boon
Of a sickle-shaped new moon.

Comments

[rafqa]

The humidity is awful.

Amy Lowell. Beautiful.