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.
This lovely poem speaks to me each year about this time. As our trees are turning red, orange, and gold and the rain comes down in a soft mist, crystalizing colors into a clarity not seen during sunny days.
An apple pie is baking in the oven, sending its fragrance throughout the house, the fire is dancing in the grate and the warmth is starting to spread enough that the dog and cat are now stretched out rather than sleeping in tightly curled little balls of fur.
Even though life is busy and I'm not able to get to all the things that need to be done, it is still good. It is still precious.