The Autumn winds blow chilly and cold*

© harrington

Hi. Thanks for the visit on this beautiful Autumn Minnesota day. Leaves are starting to turn color. earlier today I picked up, from the Mississippi Market co-op, the first Honeycrisp apples of the season. When I walked the dog this morning about 4:30, the temperature was about 43° F, downright chilly, but I was warmed today to learn that one of the postings on My Minnesota did a fair amount of good for one of my favorite places in Minnesota. Nina's owner used as part of a successful grant application (without my being aware of it, not that I'd have objected) the posting from March 1 this year about Third Places. If I hadn't been talking to her today, I never would have known. Blogging into the ether of the Internet infrequently triggers the kind of responses some of us bloggers would like. That's understandable and it makes news like a got today a very pleasant surprise. One of the differences, I think, between print authors and bloggers, is print authors have editors (and, eventually, readings with an audience). Bloggers mostly have to rely on comments, of which, all too often, there are few. I'm guilty of that [not commenting] myself on a number of blogs that I read frequently. Maybe we can all do a better job in the future of letting folks know when we enjoy or used something they write. Speaking of the future, do you see the seasons as a linear path to the future or as a recurring cycle each year, or both? Where did your perspective come from? I know that the seasons return each year and that each year, with my allotted seasons, I can expect one less to enjoy. That's Autumn speaking too. Speaking of Autumn, take a look at this poem by Jane Hirshfield. I really relate to the first half or so. The ending is, for me, far more bitter than sweet. How about you?

The Heat of Autumn 

By Jane Hirshfield

The heat of autumn
is different from the heat of summer. 
One ripens apples, the other turns them to cider. 
One is a dock you walk out on, 
the other the spine of a thin swimming horse
and the river each day a full measure colder. 
A man with cancer leaves his wife for his lover.
Before he goes she straightens his belts in the closet, 
rearranges the socks and sweaters inside the dresser
by color. That’s autumn heat:
her hand placing silver buckles with silver, 
gold buckles with gold, setting each 
on the hook it belongs on in a closet soon to be empty, 
and calling it pleasure.   

Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily. 

*April Come She Will lyrics, Paul SImon