It is the time of
year when things linger . . .
among them,
. the lingering
fragrance of bergamot in the Earl Grey tin;
. the lingering
burn of green chili on the skin of my hands, after (lingeringly) seeding and
peeling the half bushel I had roasted on Sunday—another of the best smells in
the world.
It's time to slow
down, to appreciate every last drop of things.
I've pulled out my worn old t-shirt from the Thoreau Sauntering Society,
pronouncing "It's a great art to saunter." Lingering and sauntering are much the same,
the art of painstaking, of woolgathering too, of noting what is here, today, the
last day of summer, and might not be here tomorrow or the day after, so should
be paid close attention to. (Don't end
sentences with prepositions, unless you
want to. As my dear father used to say,
quoting I don't know who, "What did you bring the books I didn't want to
be read to out of up for?" Words,
too, are fun to linger in, saunter among.)
"To make
longer," the German word for linger meant.
And also "to long." I
love that, longing to make longer—that's what autumn's all about.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Thendara Sky
No comments:
Post a Comment