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    “To face the weather and be unable to tell
    how much of it was light and how much thought”

    Wallace Stevens in Extracts from Addresses to the Academy of Fine Ideas

 

The thing about autumn
is when you take away the poetry,
pare it down to bare reality,
you still have the colored leaves,
the harvest’s ease, the bounty
promised by a blissful spring.

When the air turns chill,
the warm hearth is even more
than crackling fire and cider’s kiln.
I feel the poetry creeping in
like Jack Frost with his wily smile
and it occurs to me

that autumn is more than poetry,
more than reality.

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