As I write, a storm is rolling in.  Snow is coming.  Good news for skiers, certainly.

The relatively warm days we’ve been having may finally be really and truly gone.

I don’t like the coming of winter.  I never really dislike it as much as I think I will, but I miss the summer and the fall, and the spring always seems so far away.

A favorite poem, “Herbstag” or “Autumn  Day,” by Rainer Maria Rilke:

Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr gro.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren la die Winde los.

Befiehl den letzten Frchten voll zu sein;
gieb ihnen noch zwei sdlichere Tage,
drnge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte Se in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Bltter treiben.

A rather loose and unsatisfactory translation by Guntram Deichsel:

Lord, it is time. Let the great summer go,
Lay your long shadows on the sundials,
And over harvest piles let the winds blow.

Command the last fruits to be ripe;
Grant them some other southern hour,
Urge them to completion, and with power
Drive final sweetness to the heavy grape.

Who’s homeless now, will for long stay alone.
No home will build his weary hands,
He’ll wake, read, write letters long to friends
And will the alleys up and down
Walk restlessly, when falling leaves dance.