Goodbye, September!

Dear Friends,

Welcome to our home today~thank you so much for your kind comments, as always. They brighten our day in a wonderful way!

It is a cold, wet day today. The thermometer says it's 40 degrees, and it's supposed to get down to 29 degrees tonight. Brrr! We have scurried to save everything we could in the garden before Jack Frost REALLY came to call (He's only popped by a few times so far :) ), and have spent as much time as possible outdoors, soaking up the warmth and sunshine of this beautiful time of year.


Although we would dearly love to have a root cellar, and an attic, and lots of produce to have filled them both, we are grateful that we were able to gather and grow what we did, and for our home in which to keep it safe. We feel very blessed with just what we have.



Along with the products of field and vine, the summer sunshine has grown in us ever more the love of God's creations, and an awe of all that there is to learn about them. Truly each day is a miracle, given to us through His great love. All we have to do is reach out and take hold of that miracle, sifting out the good from the bad, and growing from the trials and tribulations that we are called to pass through.


My friends, I pray that you will be strengthened to bear with ease whatever load you may be called to carry. Remember that you will not be given more than what you can handle, good or bad! May we prepare our minds and hearts for all the good that He is willing to give, as well as those experiences which are here to help us grow to be more like He is.



Love,

Marqueta

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To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river swallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

~John Keats