It's the light

The temperature got up to 85 yesterday. The grass is brown, the roses are thriving, the tomatoes are red, and yet it doesn't look like summer anymore. It's the light. It comes from an autumnal angle. It comes late and leaves early. It makes me think of wool sweaters and stocking hats and mittens. I have an urge to put away the lightweight pastels and bring out the darker shades. Away with rose pink, bring out the cranberry. Away with chambray blue, bring out the navy. Fold up the pewter and bring on the charcoal. And yet, the temperature got up to 85 yesterday. In the spring, while it's still in the fifties, the light makes us go crazy and wear sandals and shorts. Life above the 45th parallel is influenced by the light.

Ok, poetry time:

Demeter’s Farewell

Afternoon light lies yellow on the hill,
and trees drag long, slow shadows behind them.
The incense of autumn smoke drifts in the air.
The grapes are gone, and Demeter is packing to leave.
Her Maenad daughters straggle home
weary, bedraggled, sunburned dry as leaves,
wrapped in bittersweet melancholy like a shawl.
Overhead, maple seeds cluster thick as furies
ready to whirl off into winter with the first fall wind.
But Summer lingers on the doorstep,
prolonging her parting,
languidly
kissing us
goodbye.