But no, the poem I sought was Keats' "To Autumn." "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" it begins, full of praise and exhortation. There is a cider press, and a winnowing wind, and the long locks of autumn, golden in the sun. The poem is infused with a honeyed sense of time, with languour, with, really, all those lovely -our words that signify leisure and slow time. It sounds a bit like the autumn I am inhabiting right now--one I have not experienced in this specific setting for eleven years. And oh, how worthy of an ode it is.
So beautiful!) Ah, yes, there loomed my beloved. Sighted with full orchestra accompaniment. There have been so many moments like this for me in the past month that startle me into feeling vibrantly alive and full of an intense, heart-pressing gratitude for being here at this moment in time. For seeing this place that has been relegated into memory for eleven years through a newly-discovered season, and a newly-discovered me breathing within it.
***(I realize all of these blogs from Jackson have ended on somewhat of a heart-swelling note of effusion so far, but what can I say? Effusive seems to be the name of the game for me right now... As Modest Mouse would say, Blame It On the Tetons.)