By Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Guntram Deichsel
Lord, it is time. Let the great summer go,
Lay your long shadows on the sundials,
And over harvest piles let the winds blow.
Command the last fruits to be ripe;
Grant them some other southern hour,
Urge them to completion, and with power
Drive final sweetness to the heavy grape.
Who's homeless now, will for long stay alone.
No home will build his weary hands,
He'll wake, read, write letters long to friends
And will the alleys up and down
Walk restlessly, when falling leaves dance.
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We had plans to go to the Brandywine Valley with Cheryl on Saturday, but she sadly lost her stepfather earlier in the week, so we postponed those plans. Instead I had a quiet morning of chores -- hey, my laundry has been put away! -- and after lunch, Paul and I went to Brookside Gardens, where autumn finally seems to be arriving around the ponds and the conservatory has a chrysanthemum display:
Since we were in that direction, we stopped at Roots Market, where we made the terrible discovery that Tofurkey slices aren't just out of stock locally, but everywhere, because of a production problem, though we got lots of organic goodies. We just watched the Dodgers beat the Brewers, so they can go on to play the Red Sox in the World Series. Now we're watching a rerun of the SNL season opener until Kanye makes us turn it off!
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