Poem 37

I had a recent revelation about the arbitrariness of seasons recently. It wasn't anything major that caused this, but it occurred to me that there's nothing significant about the four seasons in and of themselves. Sure, on some days we have more light or dark than any other time of the year, or we are more likely to have temperatures in the 90's than the 20's, and as significance junkies we like to think these are important divisions of the year. Discrepancies, however, abound. I know one person who checks this blog lives in the Southern Hemisphere where the seasons are different. She does not experience seasons the way I do, and I think all of us experience "personal" seasons of one kind or another.

I intend to post five poems about such obscure seasons this week. Please stay tuned.

from Fulton’s Guide to Unofficial Seasons

False Autumn
marks the onset of premature
nostalgia fits,
yanked out like sweaters
from closets for a morning chill.
At such a time,
when few yellow leaves at the tips
of branches
surprise the end of a rainy August,
Sue Xiong realizes the four months
before Christmas.
She would be wise
to keep the rake in the garage.
Even as one leaf scratches
the sidewalk on a breezy jaunt,
millions dangle and flutter,
demanding further sunshine.