We will ignore the fact that yesterday it was almost 90 degrees. Today it is about 70. I was able to bake banana chocolate chip muffins without heating the house up to an ungodly temperature. My gardens are getting that blowsy, overdone look and the nights are cooling down.
My thoughts are turning toward big pots of chili and loaves of homemade bread, to cozy afghans and big books. I have several I have been saving for the long, dark evenings ahead.
We will go for long walks, sit around a campfire or two, bake lots of cookies, and probably go apple picking.
There is a nostalgic feel to the very end of summer, regret for all the things that didn't get done, the moments of laziness that were not fully indulged, the swims that were not taken, the places not visited.
I like a lot of Robert Frost's poetry. He is such a New England poet and his poetry always seems to catch a mood and give the image in my head words. Here is one that ties in with the feel of the end of summer.
A LATE WALK
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words.
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.
I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.