"My Sorrow, when she's here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, the withered tree; She walks the sodden pasture lane. The Farm Market in November Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am fain to list: She's glad the birds are gone away, She's glad her simple worsted grey Is silver now with clinging mist. The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky, The beauties she so truly

October at Blue Heron Farm Market “O suns and skies and clouds of June, And flowers of June together, Ye cannot rival for one hour October’s bright blue weather. When loud the bumblebee makes haste, Belated, thriftless vagrant, And goldenrod is dying fast, And lanes with grapes are fragrant…” — Helen Hunt Jackson, October’s Bright Blue Weather Reflection October settles over the farm like a quilt stitched in gold and blue. The mornings are sharp with cool air, but by afternoo

“The goldenrod is yellow,The corn is turning brown,The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down. …It is the season of the year...