An autumn rain scene in Oregon

Autumn is here, for real.

Leaves everywhere, from the front porch to wherever I turn. A carpeting that will soon be cleared by nature and humans. The yellows and reds and greens on the trees are spectacular, while the trees that have shed all their leaves look like nudists standing among the evergreens.

During the break in the rains, I grabbed my camera and headed to walk by the river.

In the photo, you can see the dark clouds gathering. Yes, those clouds emptied their bucketloads on me and a few others who were out there. It was well worth the soaking because more than anything I got to see and smell the paradise where I live.

Quite an autumn rain scene it was, those few minutes when I rushed back home.

Why not then leave it to Thomas Hardy to describe "An Autumn Rain-Scene":

There trudges one to a merry-making
With a sturdy swing,
On whom the rain comes down.
To fetch the saving medicament
Is another bent,
On whom the rain comes down.
One slowly drives his herd to the stall
Ere ill befall,
On whom the rain comes down.
This bears his missives of life and death
With quickening breath,
On whom the rain comes down.
One watches for signals of wreck or war
From the hill afar,
On whom the rain comes down.
No care if he gain a shelter or none,
Unhired moves one,
On whom the rain comes down.
And another knows nought of its chilling fall
Upon him at all,
On whom the rain comes down.

Autumn is here. How about a poem?

These are the last days of summer.  Autumnal equinox is only a few days away: Sep 22nd, at 11:09 PM EDT.

And then? As the days become shorter than the nights,

We head indoors.
  Go to classes.
    Wonder at the changing colors on trees.
      Complain about the leaves on the ground.
        Start using the ovens.
          Yell at football players on the TV screen.  ...

To commemorate this, I headed to my favorite source for poems, which is where I came across this beauty:

Autumn Movement
by Carl Sandburg

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman,
       the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things
      come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go,
      not one lasts.

The season changes: Autumn

The moon was sinking over the hills, the air was crystal clear, the wind was cool, and the songs of the insects among the autumn grasses would by themselves have brought tears.

Murasaki Shikibu, The Tale of Genji (1010). While a lady in attendance at the Japanese court, Murasaki wrote what is widely considered to be the first novel. The work was unusual for its time, not only because it was written by a woman, but also because it was written in Japanese (Chinese was the lingua franca of the Japanese court) and in prose. The beauty of nature is a prominent theme of the story, which recounts the life of Genji, a handsome courtier, and the women he loved.

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