To Autumn

William Blake – 1757-1827

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayst rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

"The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

"The spirits of the air live on the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees."
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

Flat Irons

By Billie Daddario

Rust Red Brown

Flat leaning up against cerulean sky

Base at the Chautauqua

You draw me in.

Mysterious and beautiful

I yearn to see you face to face.

I love your challenge

Mount Everest in my mind.

Wild flowers, pine trees

Grassy meadows you peaceful in the sun

But fickle you could change and become deadly as a gun