Scenes from a cottage

And so it is that time of year when we drag our docks and boats from the lake, store deck chairs in the shed, and split wood for the fireplace. It was a gorgeous Thanksgiving weekend at the lake, warm and sunny with no hint of the cold about to descend like an unwelcome guest. But the leaves are just past their peak, the water is too cold for swimming, and so it is with heavy hearts we say goodbye to summer. For real.

The garden has a few stragglers, but there has already been a killing frost, and so it must be put to bed until Spring.

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.
(Edna St. Vincent Millay)