A tree on our parish's property |
As anyone in the Pacific Northwest knows, we had a pretty
late start to good summer weather. In fact, it was the classic “wait until
Independence day for the switch to be flicked.” August was mostly beautiful,
and September was (as it so often is) superb. But this October…well,
it has been exceptional. With rain expected for the weekend, I'm cherishing this season with especial thankfulness.
Many of the days so far this month have been warmer than
much of early summer, and the nights have been mostly cool and clear. I’ve
spent much more time by our backyard fireplace this fall than is usual, listening to Dave Brubeck and enjoying conversations with friends.
The best part of this almost Indian Summer has been the
biking. My, but it has been beautiful....
Something for which I am most thankful: this bridge, good weather, and the time to enjoy it by bicycle. |
Autumn biking is, to me, always the best. The already-warmed
earth meets a lower-angle sun and air that doesn’t seem to “hold the heat” as
much, making for a great combination of effects. I was thinking of this today
as I made my way across town to bring Holy Communion to a member of our parish.
The air was warm yet clear. The promise of a cool night hid in the shadows even
as the memories of long summer days wafted amongst the tree-tops. Mellowness
was all about.
Bringing Holy Communion to parishioners by bike is a venerable tradition in the our church. |
Unlike the spring, the scents of fall are complex—and at times, pungent—but they remind me of long-ago youthful days, school activities,
and the inevitable cycle of the earth preparing for its winter nap.
Fruitfulness: Our Parish's Community Garden |
Perhaps best of all, fall is a season of fruitfulness. My
favorite Keats poem is all about this, and I’m leaving you with it as well as some
photos of this extraordinarily lovely, warm autumn:
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.
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