It's actually cold! And a Rilke poem for you. Happy Autumn!

It's actually cold. Twenty degrees and dark out. ugh. 

This week is supposed to get up into the 50s/60s, so we had better get the outdoor stuff done. Like, turn off the outside water spigot. (And would you believe I saw some post the other day from an erstwhile smart person spelling it spicket?) Anyhow, herbs and carrots when we get home from church and breakfast. 

The writing workshop yesterday was an absolute delight. All the people I met were wonderful, I was not the youngest in the room (call it bottom third), and I wrote and wrote and laughed and thought and talked with new folks. I have a few drafts that show promise. I sold two books. And our presenter, Betsy Sholl, was an absolute spitfire! She's awesome. Yes, I was tired when I got home, but it was good day tired, writing tired. And we went to dinner at the Littleton Freehouse, and I got a lovely salmon dinner with a glass of pinot grigio. I came home, crawled under a blanket, and watched a few more episodes of The Diplomat on Netflix. (If you haven't seen it, you must. It's on season 4. I'm in danger of finishing the season in maybe three sittings.)

Today, though, I have to play a little catch-up with chores and whatnot, but there will be football. And the pellet stove. I have a gigantic pork tenderloin defrosting for dinner (it'll provide lots of leftovers, yay!), and I am thinking about roasting acorn squash and mashing up some sweet potatoes as sides. If I have time, maybe an apple pie. We'll see. 

It's autumnal out there. But yesterday's weather, after the wind and rain passed, was crisply gorgeous-- blue skies, bright sun, and lots of fallen leaves that hadn't mushed up yet. It felt idyllic. 

Here's a poem I desperately love. It's "Autumn Day" by Rilke, translated by Edward Snow:

Autumn Day

Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your long shadows on the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds go free.

Command the last fruits to be full;
give them just two more southern days,
urge them on to completion and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Who has no house now, will never build one.
Who is alone now, will long remain so,
will stay awake, read, write long letters
and will wander restlessly up and down
the tree-lines streets, when the leaves are drifting.

Have a glorious day, friends. Keep safe. Hugs and stuff,

C