Treason

The final day of August is off to a fine start. A warm wind from the south massages the body and stirs the soul. Patches of blue share the sky with fast-moving clouds. The grass, remarkably enough, is still green.
Even so, there are signs that the end of summer is not far off: a few fallen leaves, goldenrod in full bloom, a subtle change of shade in the green of the forest. I am not quite ready to let go of the season, but feel it slipping through my fingers. It has been a good summer.
Yesterday I put all but the last of the peaches into two pies. I cheated (store-bought crust)because I was pressed for time. I shared one pie with folks at church and sent the other with Kathy to school. I have just one peach left, an excellent specimen I intend to eat with my lunch today.
As the calendar turns, I must turn my attention to a major writing project. I've already received the advance check and the stack of books I need for research sits and stares silently at me from the window sill behind my desk. I find myself procrastinating, resisting getting started just as much as I am resisting letting go of summer. I suspect the two cases are related. Somehow, taking hold of this new project will signal the end of summer.
As I consider my predicament, the words of Robert Frost come to mind:

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

(Reluctance, final stanza)

Soon I will begin what I must, but not without regret.