But still lovely fall weather.

Three trailers-full of tightly stomped (by Sue) leaves delivered to the Ww compost site, and pitch forks and shovels needed to hack through the compacted masses and get them off-loaded. What's left in the yard will be ground up and tilled into the garden.

The iceboats came out of Roger's barn today (in anticipation of winter), and the sad thing was—his farm is being sold. We will miss Roger, and his beautiful barn. Roger is a fine fellow, and his farm is the source of the fabled Susie Pea. (It was on the burn pile.)

Roger, being a farmer, pays close attention to the weather, and he let us know, in no uncertain terms, that winter is actually coming. So, perhaps, although there has been no snow or rain, our preparatory efforts will not have been in vain.

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My November Guest

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
—RF