The singing leaves and punted footballs drop, and the valley
suddenly seems to have sprouted pumpkins, and a surprising
chill in the early morning brings rosy youth to my braced cheeks.
Autumn returns like my wildest cousin, the one who chased girls
and rode bulls and died young, and now the strong light of day
balances with the sweet lure of night, a wildness, a softness,
an easy sort of golden yellow. Careless. Dear.
This is the autumn I pass fifty years - I match the season!
Summer has passed, but I don't miss it, I loved most of it,
and the rest I can let go. Winter is coming, I'll be ready.
But first I think I'll hold each single autumn day, windy and crisp.
At least this: I'll try to hold them, Kathy, I do mean to try.