by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator
The Phoenix Valley is a land of two temperatures: warm and hot - and a land of one basic color: brown. Seasons are subtle here with warm slipping quietly into hot and then, six or eight months later, slipping back into warm again. Major dust storms are more common in Phoenix than rain showers. There is no frost, or snow, and certainly very little in the way of seasonal change.
And oh how I miss those seasons!
Next Sunday is the official start of fall, an event of colorful import in other places. In recognition of that annual tilting of the Earth's axis and attendant change of seasons, I have selected the following poem by Emily Bronte to mark the occasion. Her poem reminds us that winter, another wonderful season, will soon follow on the heels of fall - just not in Phoenix.
This time next year I shall be sitting under a maple tree waiting for the leaves to change color and drift down upon my head.
Fall, Leaves, Fall
by Emily Jane Bronte
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night's decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
Poetry Appreciator
The Phoenix Valley is a land of two temperatures: warm and hot - and a land of one basic color: brown. Seasons are subtle here with warm slipping quietly into hot and then, six or eight months later, slipping back into warm again. Major dust storms are more common in Phoenix than rain showers. There is no frost, or snow, and certainly very little in the way of seasonal change.
And oh how I miss those seasons!
Next Sunday is the official start of fall, an event of colorful import in other places. In recognition of that annual tilting of the Earth's axis and attendant change of seasons, I have selected the following poem by Emily Bronte to mark the occasion. Her poem reminds us that winter, another wonderful season, will soon follow on the heels of fall - just not in Phoenix.
This time next year I shall be sitting under a maple tree waiting for the leaves to change color and drift down upon my head.
Fall, Leaves, Fall
by Emily Jane Bronte
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night's decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
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