Corn husk angels, twig stars, and pumpkins

Yes, I am ready for fall.  The sights, smells, colors.  They all intrigue me.  Last fall I made dozens of these cute little corn husk angels.  I ended up using them on my Christmas tree!

Corn husk angels

I made dozens of twig stars last fall that also ended up on the Christmas tree.  I can't help but start getting excited when the humidity finally breaks.  It is a sign of things to come!

Twig star

Are there certain foods that you normally only make during the fall and winter?  This mystery cake is a favorite!  I make lots of soups and stews during the winter and am already anticipating a big pot of venison stew!

Yes, I know it's early.  I'm like a kid in a candy store - I canNOT wait for fall.  I love the mums and pumpkins.

Let's not forget the gourds!

Pretty isn't it?

I always use these to decorate.

And these end up sprinkled throughout the house.

Can you tell I'm ready for fall?

To Autumn

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.

- John Keats