To Autumn -- 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, and 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.
It's Labor Day, the traditional end of summer. The day after which you are no longer supposed to wear white shoes. (Though Stacy and Clinton say it's okay now).
Dave spent the day taming the jungle of the backyard and pressure washing the patio for Rebekah's birthday next weekend. You would have thought it was Memorial Day weekend from the temperatures and our pool readiness.
Meanwhile, I'm already burning my Autumn Woods and Spiced Pumpkin candles (de-lish!), anxious to bake pumpkin bread and spice cake in my new fall-shaped molds and pumpkin-shaped sugar cookies, chomping at the bit to get my fall decorations out, and trying to decide on "Fall Festival" costumes for the kids that they won't swelter in. (We're between Very Hungry Caterpillar and sumo wrestler for Ben. Rebekah has asked to be a rhino, cat, or race car driver.) And it's 94 degrees outside. I'm ready for a hint of coolness, for the heat rash on Ben's skin to disappear, for some mornings in the yard or at the park with the kids or evening walks. I'm beginning to think warm days will never cease.