Saturday, February 12, 2005

East of the Mountains

I'm reading a book right now, East of the Mountains, recommended to me by a good friend, Cara Walker. It's by the author of Snow Falling on Cedars, David Guterson. It's a beautiful, meditative book, coupled with some harrowing action. There came a passage on pg. 99 that floored me for how accurately it portrays my feelings about summer. Something I've always felt, but have never been able to put into words. My feeble attempt came last July, but that pales in comparison to Guterson's words:

The season of pears was upon them soon, at that point in August when nothing tangible suggests the demise of summer, except our apprehension.

For years I've had a poem hung on my office wall, but I moved offices recently and it's still in a box. I'll have to dig it out and post the sad, poignant words about the end of summer from the perspective of grass. Right now I can't even remember the poet. Unlike Erik Henne, who booed the onset of Spring here in the NW because it cuts his ski season short, I'm egging it on so we can move on to summer.

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