Artwork: Crane's Seasons Dance
Edtiress: Ginger Strivelli With the end of the harvest season upon us, thanksgiving, and the beginning of the Yuletide season shopping this month, we hope you all stop to think of and help when/how you can, those who are less fortunate and have harvested less this year than you have. It's been a rough year for many people, and most of us are feeling less 'well-off' than usual, but many are much less well-off' than us still. Try to remember a bowl of rice once or twice a day and waterproof tarp to sleep on the ground under are all many people in the world long for. So when one of us can't afford to go out to eat and have to make do with PB&J sandwiches for dinner one night, or when we can't find the spare cash to go to the movies this weekend or buy a new ipod cause ours broke....try to remember how blessed we still are, compared to others all over the world, who are poorer than we ever are. --------------FROM OUR BOOK OF SHADOWS:---------------- To Autumn John Keats Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. ------------------------ Cornucopia Poem by Ginger Strivelli Mother Nature's cornucopia spills forth more Than we could ever wish for, She provides us with a bountiful harvest every autumntide, For She has too much sacred fertility to hide, She sends us food to eat, water to drink and all the things we need, She even sends our children into our wombs, in deed! Her sacred fertility is a miracle above all others, Her ablity to give life, should be worshiped, like all mothers'! Her cornucopia is full to overflowing, and Her love for us, Her children, is beyond knowing. Our Blessed Mother, with her cornucopia in hand, pours out Her sacred fertility to us, the animals, and the land.