Even here in Atlanta, I am starting to feel the pull of the seasons. I didn't intend to be away from this blog for so long, but there are just so many other things going on. We have been making a push to finish the
Tumbleweed House so it is 100% inhabitable by next Spring.We are also getting ready for our trip to
South Africa, which is feel is being looked after by a very different Goddess. But I still can't deny the beauty of the Autumn Equinox as the time where Persephone descends once again into the Underworld to be with her husband.
I thought, to honor the turning of the season I would provide a "Greatest Hits" of the past posts on this topic.
Like the song
Meet Me on the Equinox by Death Cab for Cutie. Just pretend it isn't tied into the movie
Twilight.
There is also the post I did last year on the Equinox. I had woven a crude crown of orange flowers and placed them on Persephone to honor her return to the Underworld.
And I always do enjoy a good seasonal recipe from the Greek cookbook.
And, last year I also posted this photo I took of Persephone up at the land in Asheville.
And not to mention, the Autumn Equinox marks the two year anniversary of this blog.
So, Praise Persephone and this changing season. Rejoice in her descent. I leave you with this poem, my favorite by John Keats;
To Autumn.
TO AUTUMN.
1.
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
2.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
3.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
