From whiskey river:
September: it was the most beautiful of words, he’d always felt, evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret.
(Alexander Theroux)
For summer there, bear in mind, is a loitering gossip, that only begins to talk of leaving when September rises to go.
(George Washington Cable)
…and:
If we were not beings who pass quickly away like all other things, none of this would matter.
(Susan Murphy, Upside-Down Zen)
…and (the single word don’t ringing loudly):
Why we don’t die
In late September many voices
Tell you you will die.
That leaf says it. That coolness.
All of them are right.Our many souls — what
Can they do about it?
Nothing. They’re already
Part of the invisible.Our souls have been
Longing to go home
Anyway. “It’s late,” they say.
“Lock the door, let’s go.”The body doesn’t agree. It says,
“We buried a little iron
Ball under that tree.Let’s go get it.”
(Robert Bly, Eating The Honey of Words: New and Selected Poems)
…and — not from whiskey river, just because I was curious about Bly’s “iron ball” and found this video, likewise on the theme of time, and of things which can happen too quickly to see or even imagine:
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…and finally, because obvious though the selection is, this post just wouldn’t be complete without it:
Sarah says
I’ve never seen autumn as sad or a passing away- but as a relief from summer’s relentless demands: the heat that won’t ease, the sun that won’t set, the time that stretches endlessly in forced inactivity. Give me mist and fallling leaves and life moving once again toward a magical transformation.
John says
@Sarah – Oh, me too! I think autumn is my favorite season. There’s always that one morning when you go out to get the newspaper from the driveway, and the air is just a degree or two cooler or a point of humidity drier than it was yesterday, and you suddenly realize this isn’t a tease, it’s really fall…