Autumn arrives. It's the time of the harvest. A time to prepare for winter. To store all the precious harvest that summer produced. The fruit is ripe and delicious.
But for the careless and the unlucky this could be a time of misery as they contemplate a winter without the bounteous stores of a summer well spent.
The winds blow. The trees loose their leaves and the warning is in the air winter will soon be here. Have you prepared?
Ode to Autumn
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.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
by Thirtharaj Bhattacharyya
Standing by the window, when the eyes trace the blue sky, The dusty wind obscures the view, and pale maple leaves decorate the footpath. The window panes are shaken, the hair curls by the ear are tucked, And, like senescence, it's autumn in the scene, journeying towards winter along the cyclic path, Of life, that's mild now: experienced, devoid of flavor, the grey hair speaking all of it, Like the walking stick that occasionally falls and stands, guiding the age-old tree to decidate slowly, bit by bit. But no sooner does the hail turn the branches bare Than it's warm again, flowered, greened altogether with new vigor, And by the window when the insects enter and go, and the sun sweats gentle and slow, It's spring again: colors, infancy, and beauty are again welcomed with a bow, And it's festivity: just like the little child feeding on mother's milk, Or learning to walk on four limbs, and the white teeth shining like crystals, like radiating vibes from golden silk!! Two opposite entities they are, with two different extremities, But they bridge to the same side: life is a cycle, the universal one surpassing all other fundamentality!!