By Helen Hunt Jackson
This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer’s voice come bearing summer’s gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning’s rays
Will idly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
What profit from the violet’s day of pain?
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November seems to be a bit confused, as we had temperatures in the mid-70s which are supposed to continue through Friday and beautiful clear skies to show off the leaves until evening, when we got some rain after dark. So it was a really nice day to walk, which is good because finally we're allowed to park our vehicles back in our parking lot, so after we walked all over the neighborhood to see the trees, we walked out of the neighborhood to retrieve the car and van, with crickets serenading us the whole way.
It was otherwise an uneventful day. I did the big summer-winter clothes shift, tried on a bunch of old sweaters, pulled out a whole bunch of things to donate, and discovered that the '80s Gap cardigan that I inherited from my sister a few decades ago is right back in style. We caught up on Once Upon a Time and watched this week's Arrow which I'm mostly keeping up with in case of Flash crossovers. Some photos of the Klip Collective's magical indoor-outdoor Nightscape exhibit at Longwood Gardens:
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