Autumn

I like autumn. I like the absence of humidity. I like the cooler temperatures. I love the colors of the foliage. I love smell of the dried leaves. But there is a melancholy that autumn brings. There is sadness in the silence that the cold brings to a field that sang with crickets. There is sadness that tugs at you when your attention is called to the sky by the cacophony of Canada geese on their way to warmer climates. It’s hard to say goodbye because you know that winter is on it’s way.

Frost knew this sadness.

A Leaf Treader
by Robert Frost

I have been treading on leaves all day until I am autumn tired.
God knows all the color and form of leaves I have trodden on and mired.
Perhaps I have put forth too much strength or been too fierce from fear.
I have safely trodden underfoot the leaves of another year.

All summer long they were overhead, more lifted up than I.
To come to their final place in earth they had to pass me by.
All summer long I thought I heard them whispering under their breath.
And when they came it seemed with a will to carry me with them to death.

They spoke to the fugitive in my heart as if it were leaf to leaf.
They tapped at my eyelids and touched my lips with an invitation to grief.
But it was no reason I had to go because they had to go.
Now up my knee to keep atop another year of snow.