. . . I’m not. Ready, that is, to say good-bye to October. Or so long. Or “asta enchilada” or whatever. October was beautiful. Legendarily so, I think. There was so much color this year, and especially the yellows here in Nebraska were absolutely amazing. Yellow is not usually the most-ballyhooed color in the autumn spectrum. That goes to the showoff color, Red, of course. And then I think Oranges run a close second. But this year it wasn’t third place for the yellows, for once. I think the yellows stole the show. Isn’t it nice when the underdog wins now and then?
Do we really have to say good-bye to October so quickly? Couldn’t we add on a few more days or even a couple of weeks to this sublime month?
Only during October can you see sights like this:
In the spirit of lingering over saying “So long, my darling!” to October, here are a couple of my favorite poems written by one of my favorite poets, Dwaine Spieker, who lives here in Nebraska and just happens to be married to my baby sister, and the papa of four of the most beautiful children you’ve ever seen. He’s a great guy with a wry sense of humor and a beautiful way of putting words down on paper.
Back in the middle of October,
autumn reached up into the lampshade
of this tree and, with a click of frost,
turned the bulb on. Now the season,
under the soft light of falling leaves,
leans back in its old recliner beginning
a long novel of wind and gray weather.
Here’s another one:
Who can blame the garden
for having pulled a quilt of frost
down from the closet, for curling up
and nodding off, even before
his work was really done for the year?
Lovely, eh? If you’d like to check out more of Dwaine’s poetry, here’s where you can pick up your own volume. Do it, do it! You’ll love his poems, Gentle Reader, I know you will! And think of what a delicious gift this would be for the poetic soul in your life!
And just because you’re my favorite, here’s one more:
BETWEEN ALL SOULS AND THANKSGIVING
Once again this year,
the garden of summer has gotten away from us,
overgrown with the weeds of our inattention.
Now the rusty mower of November
is cutting everything off clean.
Next year, we promise ourselves,
next year we’ll stay on top of things.
- Bejeweled days and snake guts
- HIDE the Spicy Ginger Applesauce, Honey!