In lieu of trying to belong to any number of societies: Chesterton, Sherlock Holmes, the Inklings, and so on: I propose and establish one of my own. Don your intelligence cap at the door; dust off your logic and imagination; did you bring your inspiration and encouragement? We are shapers, my friends; lit lamps; light-bringers. Bring quotes; poetry should be uplifting and thoughtful, or witty and clever, (or both). Humor is encouraged; laughter is invited back. Pull up a chair. Anyone for tea?

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September Song



 These days are simply glowing in beauty as autumn arrives. The early mornings are moist, and the breezes can be chilly, but trees rustle and crickets chirp with vigorous life. I've been able to catch a few sunrises recently, which to me is magical. I am seldom up to see the early dawns of summertime, and in winter, slate-clouds often obscure the view. I love the rosy light and the purple clouds moving and bursting to welcome the rising sun.



  In direct sunshine these days are still warm, but the shadows generally call for a sweater. In the gutters, a few dry leaves begin the trend. Here and there a single leaf will let go and flutter through the air, spinning before it settles, floating down.
 

And the last day or two it's been raining in delicious, pattering installments, sweeping another layer of leaves from the trees, and scattering them across wet pavement. The geese have begun flying over in great Vs, honking in familiar tones, landing in pastures, and generally adding to the peaceful vigor that is this time of year.




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