Autumn has come a month too early.
When I was flying down the road
and a cool breeze slid from its hiding place
to tug at the sides of my shirt,
I could not ignore it.
It was the face of a friend and mentor
rapping my knuckles
to prepare me for its lesson,
as if to say, it’s time to put away summer,
and pay attention.
Autumn has come a month too early,
and I’m not ready.
I cannot play back autumn
as I can the other seasons.
Spring and summer,
even winter,
are cyclical and harmless,
but autumn is the schoolmaster
that demands transformation–
as if to say, can’t you see the trees?
It’s time to shed
that skin you’ve worn
and pay attention.
Autumn has come a month too early.
It wears the cape of the wild unknown.
Why does it swing on its hinges
like a solid door,
impossible to see beyond
until it’s opened and gone through?
Why was music made for fall,
as if to say,
the strings and reeds are now warm enough
to play in minor–
let the dissonance,
the search for resolution,
shape you.
Autumn has come a month too early,
not as though I’ve dread its coming.
But the house is still dirty,
the cake to be made,
and I’m never ready when it arrives.
Yet autumn has come a month too early.
So bring on the rain.
Bring on overcast skies,
the magic of change,
of glowing hearths
and warming range,
that I might claim
its prize.
