Scuffling along in the leaves with Rose Fyleman.

My back yard at the White Picket Gardens.

Dear Friends,

Here we are in the deepest part of October. On this days of bright blue sky and sunshine, I can hardly stay inside, although there are tasks to do.

My bike and the trails call me, almost by my name, as I wander around this town and local farms. I think October makes us feel alive in every way. I love waking up to the early morning darkness, putting on wool socks, and tumbling my way downstairs to hot coffee and the beginning of the day.

When my children were young I always read this poem to them during October. Now I read it to the grandchildren. They must have a poem in their pocket as well.

This is one of my favorites, October, by Rose Fyleman.

Fyleman was an English writer and poet. She published her first poem at the age of nine, but pursued her love of music until she was in her forties. She then went verses from There are fairies in the bottom of the garden to Punch magazine and a star was born. Perhaps her name does not surface as does Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but nonetheless, when October comes, her name is whispered in the early morning frost.

October

The summer is over,
The trees are all bare,
There is mist in the garden
And frost in the air.
The meadows are empty
And gathered the sheaves--
But isn't it lovely
Kicking up leaves!

John from the garden
Has taken the chairs;
It's dark in the evening
And cold on the stairs.
Winter is coming
And everyone grieves--
But isn't it lovely
Kicking up leaves!

by Rose Fyleman