Seasonal Poetry

I don’t know about you, but I have seasonal poetry that just bangs around in my head until I let it out. In first grade, the first poem we had to memorize was:

“The goldenrod is yellow,
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.

The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun….”

Those are only the first two stanzas of Helen Hunt Jackson’s poem (and it’s really about September), but I feel much better now that it’s out!

But there’s still that other one that begs to be heard too! And this morning brought it to mind:

“WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.”

James Whitcomb Riley goes on for a long time … and I really only think of the first line … but it’s nice to get that one out too.

Yep … the frost has arrived. The morning glory has succumbed. The curtain will draw to a close over much of the garden now. I like this time too.

I learned that, after the hosta leaves have gone by, we’re supposed to clean the beds well, bag them up and throw them out with the trash and not put them in the compost. That way, naughty nematodes and slugs will go off-property and not affect future growth. Okay then. Who knew?!