the old pear tree reluctant to give way to solstice light stays green, each branch a banner to its spring heart until one day, one leaf, blood red as summers sunset is cast off to fend for itself in the cold winters wind and the tree relinquishes its hold to acquiesce to autumns desire
arranged on bales
a harvest of blessings
corn from the fields
apples for pressing
pumpkins for pies
October days lessen
blue skies of autumn
trees color dressing
changes in weather
winter storms guessing
we gather together
to ask the Lords blessing
an uncommon day in November,
the sun seeps honey and languorous
across the deep autumn landscape.
Trees fold inward, their somber winter
Birds chitter and sing as if a spring day
while small furred creatures busy themselves
with the important matters of survival
Ice begins tonight.
for one more day.
Springs cacophonous din of birdsong and early morning sun
has broken in two
leaving a drought poor fall
in shades of millet
and wheat, left to dry tattered in forgotten fields.
Leaves restless for wind,
skitter along the dusty path
running in packs of legless creatures
only to pause and hide
in shadowy dens against stone and steps.
Autumn brings its own season of light-
sometimes with bright blue sky
sometimes with harsh ice
sometimes with fog filled rain
sometimes with wild song
strands of skeined geese
in determined flight.
It is believed that one may get rid of bad luck by dropping a copper penny on the ground. The bad luck will go with the coin and be acquired by the next person to pick it up
Its not the copper in the veins of the land but the hand that hold the redeeming cents since it no longer scents the air with that just before lightning smell ozone fired kiln of oxygen hydrogen carbon, sweating against the blue of the sky, the taste of blood on the tongue.
Put the pennies over my eyes and let me rest.
The coins feel cold against my palm,
Their tarnished light gleams silver
And gold on pale skin,
Heaviness pulls me down
Until all I can do is hold
The thought of you
Against my breast
The leaves turn to yellow and gold
Falling into the silvered season
Copper beeches drift in the north wind
Drawing the sound of autumn with it
Casting golden coins before the fall.
I’m hungry for an apple pie and this recipe from Southern Living Magazine (Sept 2011) makes a great one.
Its almost like apple dumplings but not!
And the iron skillet is essential to the pie.
Try it and let me know how it turns out!
Making an apple pie has never been so easy. Simply toss apples, cinnamon, and brown sugar, and spoon over a refrigerated pie crust in the cast-iron skillet. Top with the other crust and bake.
4 pounds apples (whatever you have apple-wise)
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup butter
1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1 (14.1-oz.) package refrigerated piecrusts
How to Make It
Preheat oven to 350º. Peel apples, and cut into 1/2-inch-thick wedges. Toss apples with cinnamon and 3/4 cup granulated sugar.
Melt butter in a 10-inch cast-iron skillet over medium heat; add brown sugar, and cook, stirring constantly, 1 to 2 minutes or until sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat, and place 1 piecrust in skillet over brown sugar mixture. Spoon apple mixture over piecrust, and top with remaining piecrust. Cut 4 or 5 slits in top for steam to escape.
Bake at 350º for 1 hour to 1 hour and 10 minutes or until golden brown and bubbly, shielding with aluminum foil during last 10 minutes to prevent excessive browning, if necessary. Cool on a wire rack 30 minutes before serving
Thudding of heavy rain
against the tin roof
deep as thunder,
as the chill arrives carried
on the back of the north wind
and the wings of geese
Black winged clouds
dark as ravens eyes,
chase the day away west
and down the ridge
into dark hollows and deep ferned rests
of wildings and heavy furred souls.
Scent of woodsmoke
curls up from unseen hearths
where bright fires catch the last of the sun,
warming benches and tidy rooms
hidden from all but wide eyed owls
roosting til moonrise.
I watch the clouds spill over the ridge
and into my kitchen
deepening the dark of autumn,
my dusk and evening prayers.
and the coolness in the air is more figment than
mixed with heat rising from parched pavement
and aching ground.
It is quiet-
only an occasional lilt from passing birds
and laconic buzzing
from red wasps
busy at the old board bench.
I lean against the hickory,
it bark worn gray from seasons changing,
readying yellow to overtake the dried green
of its saw toothed leaves
in preparation of shedding it all
for a long winters dreaming.
I leave ex votos, tamata, milagros
wedged in the folds of the hickory’s skin,
bits of tin in the shape of my grief
and lost years.
An altar good enough for most deities
and the angels that linger
in autumn woods
on the first day
of my fall.
the scent of night rain lingers on the morning air
mingling with the first fallen leaves
and white blooming autumn clematis clambering
over ledges of stone and fences in decline
resettling the summers meadow into colors
of buff and tan, then flames of sumac spark
stringent sun fades and softened the harsh tones
of late summer drought into early autumn dusk
when the grand harvest moon, oh so far away
graces the sky with her golden beauty
and the crickets sharpen their bows
first song of fall
We sit on the porch eating peaches,
The last fruit of the orchard
Now swept of debris.
Only the wasps and bees remain
Still searching for that last drop
Of sweet succulent summer.