Season's Of Mist...

This morning I woke to the muffled, mournful sound of the ferryboat horn,  sending out its warning moans into the hazy fog of the Puget Sound...  I love these early fall mornings... heavy dew dripping from the shrubs and trees..., the fog seems to soften and mellow all the sounds of the morning... outside,  everything seems more accessible in a way, more exposed..., as if all the leaves and fruits know that this is their last hurrah, and want to say something before they fall, and surrender to the coldness...

Little by little, I am being coaxed by this natural world around me, to let go of the "idea" of summer and allow Autumn to be gently ushered in...  If I'm honest with myself, when I fully pay attention and see the beauty that is all around me..., I actually love this time of year, as John Keats wrote in his poem "To Autumn," now is the "season of mists, and mellow fruitfulness."... and its beautiful...

To Autumn

~ By John Keats

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, an 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 hill bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

For those of you who like to have their poetry read to them, check out this link  to the BBC's recording of some of John Keats poems... - lovely...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/romantics/poems3.shtml