falling in love

well, kindred spirits, the autumn season is upon us. you all know what this means.

this is the time of year that abby goes a little nuts. more than usual.

 

abby loves autumn. the chill in the air. the scents of pecan pie and apple cider warming on the stove. the breeze that makes the leaves dance off of the driveway and into the grass in a charming, fleeting waltz. pumpkin everything. the smell that hits your nose when you first walk outside after the maple leaves start to turn to red, orange, and gold. corduroy jackets. tall brown boots. big sweaters. hot cocoa. fresh apples. cloudy days. starry nights. bonfires. hay rides. roasted marshmallows. flannel shirts. thick blankets. happiness.

 

(abby laughs. she knows it was actually seventy five degrees today where she lives. she wants the chill in the air to come back)

 

In honor of October………

 

 

fall 1

Does it remind anyone of else of what they imagined Quebec to look like? Such loveliness.

 

 

fall 2

 

 

fall 3

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;

We must rise and follow her

When from every hill of flame

She calls and calls each vagabond by name

A Vagabond Song, Bliss Carman

 

 

 

fall 8

 

 

 

 

fall 9

 

 

fall 6

how i love fall rains

 

 

fall 4

 

 

dearest autumn, how i missed you

 

–abby

Advertisements

One With The Sun

Summer Field
By A.F. Moritz
Child
one with the sun
in trackless fields
of yellow grass and thistle, scent
of humid heavy air and the wing music
of bees and flies.
Child, slender
nakedness to itself unknown,
true colour of the light
dispersed invisibly
or glowing around the black hulls
of distant thunderheads, around
the grasshopper’s countenance,
solemn, vigilant and wise.
Green apples, poured full
of density, of crispness, float unmoved
under leaves on the slope. Brown
fallen apples nest
in secret whorls of grass. The apple tree:
alone in so much space. And below
in the woods by the water
a sweet dead branch
cracks lightly
in the shadow in the wind.
But here is an old track
through the grass head-high
to a child: who
made it? They must have
passed and passed by this one tree,
by the abandoned, tireless car
where rabbits peer out, and the circle
of black embers,
cans, springs, skeletons
of furniture. They too
passed here many times
on their way from the street’s end
to the oaks that screen
the river. There
the sun is nesting now, night
rises with pale flutterings
of white wings from roots
of plants and the black water.
–Abby