Indian Hawthorne

Today I wore a sweater at the park.  Uncharacteristic of a typical warm East County Autumn.  It made me wonder what it was like now in Maine.   I am not giddy with delight about San Diego’s lack of seasons, I love the changing of the guard, the wrapping of coats and scarves.  Real reasons to wear boots and drink hot cocoa.  Thinking of Maine reminded me of Edna St. Vincent Millay, and in doing so, I  stumbled across this poem of hers:

Autumn Daybreak

Cold wind of autumn, blowing loud
At dawn, a fortnight overdue,
Jostling the doors, and tearing through
My bedroom to rejoin the cloud,
I know—for I can hear the hiss
And scrape of leaves along the floor—
How may boughs, lashed bare by this,
Will rake the cluttered sky once more.
Tardy, and somewhat south of east,
The sun will rise at length, made known
More by the meagre light increased
Than by a disk in splendour shown;
When, having but to turn my head,
Through the stripped maple I shall see,
Bleak and remembered, patched with red,
The hill all summer hid from me.


Drawing # 5: Indian Hawthorne

dd5 72


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