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Saturday, November 8, 2008

Old Man Winter Is Headed This Way...

I was able to mow the leaves into the woods yesterday and I got up this morning to find the back yard was full of oak leaves again. We had a nice visit from my parents and this afternoon, I spent a couple of hours back out on the mower blowing leaves with it again. It was another gorgeous day here on the mountain. With most of the leaves gone, you can see the beautiful mountain range in the distance. The tall timbers sway in the wind and look so weak, but they are very strong and have withstood many storms and ice storms. Old man winter is headed this way...


BirchBerry Farms said...

I have been meaning to write to you to tell you thanks for sending me those pictures of you pretties---you guys sure do nice work----they are getting so big---that doesn't mean we are getting older does it??? YIKES! I was giggling at your leave comment---blowing into the woods---the law of averages would tell you that if you are by an Oak tree---you are NEVER free of fallen leaves---heehee---them darn trees!

Country*Road*Primitives said...

LOL! Yes, and with several huge oaks, we will always have leaves :) They are clinging on... reminds me of a poem from school by Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Last Leaf

I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone!"

The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said--
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago--
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow;

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.

I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.