The breezes taste
of apple peel.
The air is full
of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
burning brush,
new books, erasers,
chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
well-honeyed hum,
and Mother cuts
chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
with suds, the days
are polished with
a morning haze.
I was over at A Room of One's Own, and saw this poem by John Updike. I know September has passed, but I always feel like we're a bit behind weather-wise here in Texas. Other people's (in other states) descriptions of September always seem more appropriate to our Octobers.
of apple peel.
The air is full
of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
burning brush,
new books, erasers,
chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
well-honeyed hum,
and Mother cuts
chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
with suds, the days
are polished with
a morning haze.
Pencil shavings and crayons smell like going back to school, don't they?
I was over at A Room of One's Own, and saw this poem by John Updike. I know September has passed, but I always feel like we're a bit behind weather-wise here in Texas. Other people's (in other states) descriptions of September always seem more appropriate to our Octobers.
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