growing grace farm
gardening + spirituality + homesteading + creation care
the first chilly morning
SEPTEMBER
by: Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)
HE golden-rod is yellow;
- The corn is turning brown;
- The trees in apple orchards
- With fruit are bending down.
- The gentian’s bluest fringes
- Are curling in the sun;
- In dusty pods the milkweed
- Its hidden silk has spun.
- The sedges flaunt their harvest,
- In every meadow nook;
- And asters by the brook-side
- Make asters in the brook.
- From dewy lanes at morning
- The grapes’ sweet odors rise;
- At noon the roads all flutter
- With yellow butterflies.
- By all these lovely tokens
- September days are here,
- With summer’s best of weather,
- And autumn’s best of cheer.
- But none of all this beauty
- Which floods the earth and air
- Is unto me the secret
- Which makes September fair.
- ‘T is a thing which I remember;
- To name it thrills me yet:
- One day of one September
- I never can forget.
There’s something about the first chilly morning that arrives between summer and fall that fills my soul with anticipation. I will admit, autumn is my favorite time of year so I am a bit partial, but when Chilly Morning arrives, I feel like a child awaiting Santa Claus.
She greets me at the door, her hands flung open wide, embracing me with her cool kiss. Our cat, Prissy, perks up her ears and flicks her tail–oh, how frisky she’ll be this week. I skip down the driveway and call out to the chickens. They mumble and refuse to come out of their warm coop, even for their favorite breakfast.
Chilly Morning’s arrival brings with her the thought of hot cider, warm soup, and fresh greens. She invites us on long hikes under maple trees aflame in auburn and gold and lulls us to sleep with cool breezes through open windows.
She’s all about crunchy leaf piles, chirping crickets, and honking geese. She’s the color of bright pumpkins, rainbow chard, and crimson leaves.
And she’s here, filling my spirit with a sense of anticipation and excitement for a new season–a season to celebrate the Creator’s
passion for harvest and thanksgiving.
Your photo of autumn apples reminds me that, either because of the late frost or the drought, our apples do not have those starry whorls of whatever typically brands them,. I miss them!