“Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness,”
The autumn of Keats,
My childhood memories too.
Misty mornings,
Familiar Harvest hymns,
Playing conkers,
Crunching through the dry leaves.
A gentle season
Preparing us for winter.
But in Texas?
One day summer dresses,
The next week frozen fingers
As I scrape the ice from the car.
Mists hang low in the fields,
Driving on the highway between them
I feel like I am travelling above the clouds.
Even the leaves appear confused.
“Do we fall or not?”
Some take the frost as a sign.
They scurry to the ground like children late for school.
They form drifts of multicoloured snowflakes.
Others cling on to their branches,
Perhaps hoping that today was a mistake
And summer will return.
And I? I wonder when autumn happened.
I think I must have missed it
When I blinked.
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