THE DAYS OF FALL
44DAYS OF FALL
Fall is the best season of the year,the beautiful clear crisp mornings,clear bright blue skies.Fall to me is not a sad time,but a quite time to remember to relax and enjoy a quite minute by yourself. I love the smell of wood burning in the wood stoves,leaves crunching under foot,and watching them float soundless down to the ground. It`s snuggle up time,to lay in bed in the chill of the evening. Then there Halloween!I love Halloween,not for any bad reasons.I love to watch the kids dress up,and they are so excited I remember my days of trick or treating!We could not afford store bought costumes so we made our own. I love candy apples(except I can not eat them anymore) fried apples in the morning,apple pies,pumpkin curved up with all kinds of faces! Making houses out of leaves.
poems
Autumn
When the trees their summer splendor
Change to raiment red and gold,
When the summer moon turns mellow,
And the nights are getting cold;
When the squirrels hide their acorns,
And the woodchucks disappear;
Then we know that it is autumn,
Loveliest season of the year.
~Charlotte L. Riser~
got off internet
Fall`s children
"Come said the wind to
the leaves one day,
Come o're the meadows
and we will play.
Put on your dresses
scarlet and gold,
For summer is gone
and the days grow cold."
- A Children's Song of the 1880's
oldness49 Hub Author 2 years ago
After Apple Picking
by Robert Frost
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still.
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.
I cannot shake the shimmer from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the water-trough,
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and reappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
And I keep hearing from the cellar-bin
That rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking; I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall,
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised, or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
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