Patchwork Prose and Verse
It’s already as hot as August
in Mid-June, the kind of heat that
makes you wonder how we all
don’t cook to hardened arms and
faces like a pig on a spit
and why dogs don’t all
wear shoes on their feet
to go anywhere
and just exactly how people
without air conditioning lived
ages ago and whether frying
ice cream should be legal.
In Stillmeadow Sampler, Gladys Taber writes through the year in chapters named for seasons. I think what I love best is the way she captures the feelings of each season with such sensory descriptions.
I’m reading the end of the summer chapter, which focuses on August. Here is where Taber gives me the hope to get through the dog days of summer:
“As August draws to a close, evenings are cool. Autumn is already in the air. The signs are small, but a country eye sees them.”
Earlier this week, I found a reddened maple leaf. Today, I squeezed a fig, and it isn’t as firm as it was a week ago. And as I listen and watch the patterns of birds, I sense change in the numbers that are here.
The stores are beginning to put their summer clothes on clearance as the fall fashions arrive, and of course the craft stores are already decked out for Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. I’ve resisted all temptation to break out the pumpkin candles and strike a match.
I’m on the countdown, though.
Just after Labor Day weekend, I’ll bring out the pumpkins and burlap and light a maple bourbon candle. I’ll bring out the socks, sweaters, and scarves, and change out the front door wreath. I’ll book a pedicure and choose one of those shimmery autumn colors that’ll match all the shades of leaves on the deciduous trees. And I’ll make the orange spiced tea that my mother used to make when I was young and raise my cup to the changing season!
29 more………..
Common Threads 