sunday in october
the farmer, in the pride of sea-worn acres,
showed me his honey mill, the honey-gate.
late afternoon was busy on the land,
the sun was a warm gauzy providence.
the honey mill, the honey-gate. and then,
near by, the bees. they came in from the fields,
the sun behind them, from the fields and trees,
like soft banners, waving from the sea.
he told me of their thousands, their ways,
of pounds of honey in the homely apiaries.
the stores were almost full, in autumn air,
against the coming chill, and the long cold.
he was about ready to rob them now,
the combs. he’d leave them just enough to keep them.
I thought it a rather subtle point point he made,
wishing providence would be as sure of us.
image credit: danny1970
‘the winds will blow their own freshness into you,
and the storms their energy,
while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of autumn.’
image credit: Holding the Moon by Eric Houck
as fruits and leaves and the day itself acquire a bright tint just before they fall,
so the year near its setting.
october is its sunset sky; november the later twilight.’
~henry david thoreau, “Autumnal Tints”
image credit: “Autumnal Equinox” by Maggie Vandewalle – TREES