This time of year the entire world seems to be overflowing with excitement about the current season. October is the month when cooler winds pick up, leaves change colors into shades of auburn, marmalade and yellow ochre, and the build up for everyone’s favorite holiday, Halloween, really begins.

Well, I know this isn’t a popular opinion, but I am not quite as fond of Autumn as many others are - I am one of those people who can’t get enough of the Summer. By Summer’s end everyone seems to be sick of the heat, the monotony, your favorite shorts fading from too many washes and too many days in the bright sun, sweat, bug bites, chlorine in your hair and sandal-induced callouses on your feet. But not me! I love the blazing hot sun and I never tire of it. There can never be too many warm days. When I think of my happy place it includes green fields full of wildflowers, the smell of the ocean, the faintest whisper of a breeze.

There is a kind of common thread that runs through the reading and writing community which weaves a scene of cozy sweaters and curling up with a blanket and book on a chilly day, warm beverage in hand. Imagery of falling leaves and rain have an evocative air that many appreciate and relate to. I understand it. But while Autumn’s somberness is a delight to others, it brings me real dismay – I am genuinely distraught that the summer is gone. With that in mind, and in belated honor of National Poetry Day, I thought I would share this poem with you. Cozy up in your favorite sweater, pumpkin latte at your side, and enjoy!

End of Summer

BY STANLEY KUNITZ

An agitation of the air,

A perturbation of the light

Admonished me the unloved year

Would turn on its hinge that night.

I stood in the disenchanted field

Amid the stubble and the stones,

Amazed, while a small worm lisped to me

The song of my marrow-bones.

Blue poured into summer blue,

A hawk broke from his cloudless tower,

The roof of the silo blazed, and I knew

That part of my life was over.

Already the iron door of the north

Clangs open: birds, leaves, snows

Order their populations forth,

And a cruel wind blows.