It is the last lush days of August. School is starting up. The stores are full of mothers grabbing up supplies.
Accompanied by the nervous chatter of children on the threshold of losing their freedom.
(Merriam-Webster dictionary) august - akin to; marked by majestic dignity or grandeur.
August - the 8th month of the Gregorian calendar.
It is the time of year when homemakers start thinking about putting summer gear into attics and basements.
And bookmark stew recipes that will bubble on the stove and scent the autumn air.
Each day as we waltz toward fall, the evenings get just a little crisper. Blankets come out of storage.
One can gauge the season by the pattern of the
butterflies.
butterflies.
When I was a child, fruits and vegetables were canned in steaming kitchens.
The jars were marked and set up on wooden shelves in dark cellars where cobwebs perpetually held court.
For some it is a time of reflection. Of coming to terms with things and looking forward to how they will do things differently.
A seasonal harbinger of hope is often prevalent.
Thoughts skip to holidays. What we will serve. How much silverware will we need? Should we borrow card tables from the neighbors for the feast?
Ever so slowly, summer loosens her grip on us. The blooms begin to fade and blow away. The leaves turn colors and start to fall.
The bareness of the landscape is a blank slate. Empty of mistakes.
...I saw the spiders marching through air,
Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day
In latter August when the hay
Came creaking to the barn...
- Robert Lowell
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