Williamsburg Hill

Williamsburg Hill

Monday, September 30, 2019

Autumn

Baraboo, Wisconsin
This is the closest I've been to missing my deadline. I've maintained this blog for several years and have always made at least one post per month, which has been a goal I set for myself. But here I am, the last day of September 2019, sliding in with a big sigh of "that was close."

Tomorrow starts October, which I've always viewed as the beginning of autumn even though the calendar states otherwise. Some areas of the country are still battling summer heat, but I'm currently in Colorado and hope to enjoy some cooler temperatures and pretty color for a bit.

Below are some quotes and poems referencing my favorite season. I included one of my own from a short story called Precipice which I shared here recently.

Baraboo, Wisconsin
Here's to apple orchards, pumpkin patches, seeing your breath on the air, hearing the crisp crunch of fallen leaves under your feet, and of course to glorious color everywhere. Happy harvest, all!

"Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all." - Stanley Horowitz

"October's poplars are flaming torches lighting the way to winter." - Nova Bair

"Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower." - Albert Camus

"Summer ends, and autumn comes, and he who would have it otherwise would have high tide always and a full moon every night." - Hal Borland

"Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn." - Elizabeth Lawrence

"Just before the death of flowers,
And before they are buried in snow,
There comes a festival season
When nature is all aglow."
(Author Unknown)

"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." - George Eliot

"Come said the wind to
the leaves one day,
Come o're the meadows
and we will play.
Put on your dresses
scarlet and gold,
For summer is gone
and the days grow cold."
(A Children's Song of the 1880s)

"The meadow opened before her like welcoming arms ready to embrace, its colors beginning to alter as autumn waits patiently to paint the landscape with rich hues of yellows and reds. Wildflowers and wheat fields swayed on the horizon, defying the inevitable change as if crying, 'not yet, not yet' but gradually all would bow and sleep; the palette of fall would insure it." - Veronica Randolph Batterson (Precipice)



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