The humidity snapped: we never think it will happen and then magically it does. Hoodies, sweaters, long sleeves and jeans all come popping out of the caverns these have been stuffed into. We walk outside and can actually breathe freely, not hesitatingly, not haltingly as we must through the exhaustion of constant heavy air — we can actually move in this air that does not wear us down and wear us out within minutes. The fall is when we begin to feel alive after the drudgery that is summer here: we can greet the day with some level of joy and yet still enjoy an iced coffee on the sidewalk (in our hoodies).
John Keats wrote “To Autumn” September 19, 1819 and the first stanza in particular speaks to all the glory that is this season — the best season.
To Autumn (first stanza here, link to complete poem)
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
3 Coffees A Day 