Sunday, October 12, 2008
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer
Shadowy fields that are senseless but full of singing.
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples
the wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn and broken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heartless.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction
While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
- Sara Teasdale - from Rivers to the Sea
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- I grew up in Chautauqua County, NY. I graduated from Edinboro University of Pennyslvania in 1981 with a BFA in Jewelry and Metalworking. I have been married 31 years. I currently run a small business with my husband. We both enjoy the outdoors and animals a great deal and live on a tiny farm in Western, NY.