The Autumn Poets

          We went away to Florida last week (though I would have preferred Vermont), and when we got back, the autumn season was already in full swing.  I hate to miss even a minute of my soul's most resonant season.  And as fall comes to Western Pennsylvania, once again I welcome its annual reminder of impermanence.  All its autumnal glory lies in its transience.  We are wiser, happier people when we learn to embrace impermanence, but by the time we learn it, our lives are usually on the verge of proving it by disappearing forever from the earth.  I've never understood the third verse of this poem ("the eyes of many elves"?), but  here's a celebration of the season's melancholia.  

This handsome blue heron was one of two hanging out at the shallow end of the lake.  He made two screeching honks when he saw me, and his friend flew away majestically.  

Besides the Autumn poets sing
a few prosaic days
a little this side of the snow
and that side of the haze

A few incisive mornings

a few ascetic eves

Gone, Mr. Bryant's golden rod

and Mr. Thompson's sheaves.

Still is the bustle in the brook

sealed are the spicy valves

mesmeric fingers softly touch 

the eyes of many elves

Perhaps a squirrel may remain

my sentiments to share--

Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind

thy windy will to bear.

~Emily Dickinson