8:23 a.m. and falling increasingly behind in Atlanta
listening to Roger Miller singing King of the Road… dancing in my chair… loving it…
Hi, everyone. Okay, where am I and what’s the plan? Quick glance at my notebook, and:
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.
All day I have watched the purple vine leaves
fall into the water.
And now in the moonlight they still fall,
but each leaf is fringed in silver.
I love this time of year when I go in search of autumn poems. Southern hemisphere readers, I did not want you to feel neglected.
The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in His heaven–
All’s right with the world!
I know, not what I said would be here. Not only that but, on looking at the calendar, I realised that Tuesday is the last one of the month and, therefore, an image day. So what I told you would be the prompt is out the window, too. Just trying to keep your minds agile.
I shall see you tomorrow for the prompt roundup; Tuesday for an image prompt; and next Thursday for a discussion on an item put forth by Mary K.
Happy season’s change, everyone.