October dreams

We didn't notice any actual frost last night or early this morning but we're leaving the plants covered since the forecast for tonight is a low of 33℉. This morning, on the drive to pick up this week's CSA share, it was cold enough that the pre-programmed heaters in the steering wheel and the seat came on. The added warmth felt good. Now the temperature has risen to a balmy 46℉, about 20℉ below the normal high for today. We enjoy autumn more when mother nature doesn't try to foreshorten it by a month or 5 weeks.

mid-October oak leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, many of the oak tree leaves are still producing chlorophyll and staying green. I don't have any idea what accounts for the major differences in when the different species of trees turn color nor why some trees start at the top and work down while others start on one side and spread color from there. Then again, maybe that all comes under the  heading of "life is a mystery to be lived and not a problem to be solved." Probably, by mid-month, many of the oaks will show lots more color. Until then, we'll enjoy what's left on the maples and sumacs and pretend the colors in the oak leaves are like an old fashioned actual photo print slowly being developed.

early October, pumpkins awaiting surgery

Photo by J. Harrington

Since we are now into October, it will soon be time to shop for pumpkins. The Better Half already picked up some small decorative gourds for the dining table. We won't actually carve any jack-o-lanterns until several days before Halloween. Once again we're not expecting any trick-or-treaters, but it's fun to enjoy light emanating from the carved pumpkins, unless deer or rabbits nibble away at the edges of the carvings, ruining the whole effect. That's happened more than once over the years.

Song for Autumn 

by Mary Oliver

Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now

how comfortable it will be to touch

the earth instead of the

nothingness of the air and the endless

freshets of wind? And don’t you think

the trees, especially those with

mossy hollows, are beginning to look for

the birds that will come—six, a dozen—to sleep

inside their bodies? And don’t you hear

the goldenrod whispering goodbye,

the everlasting being crowned with the first

tuffets of snow? The pond

stiffens and the white field over which

the fox runs so quickly brings out

its long blue shadows. The wind wags

its many tails. And in the evening

the piled firewood shifts a little,

longing to be on its way.

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