Staff Editorial

A few of my favorite fall poems

Fall is my favorite season of the year. The colorful leaves and beautiful weather give my days a boost of positivity.

I love the feeling of summer completing and winter approaching. The autumn smell drifting through my house pushing me to curl up with a good book.

A few other reasons I love autumn include — the crunch of freshly fallen leaves; the nice breeze that seems to be a fall staple; the warm days and cool nights; not having to have the heat or the air conditioning on; pumpkin carving; Halloween; pumpkin pie; dewy mornings; longer sunsets and comfy sweaters — just to name a few.

But for many, fall is associated with melancholia.

Melancholia is defined as “a mental condition characterized by great depression of spirits and gloomy forebodings.”

For many, autumn marks the transition from beautiful summers to harsh, cold winters. Many poets have written about the dreadful season of autumn, seeing it as a time to look inward and reflect.

A poem I love about dreading the end of fall is called September Tomatoes by Karina Borowicz.

The whiskey stink of rot has settled

in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises

when I touch the dying tomato plants.

Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms

flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots

and toss them in the compost.

It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready

to let go of summer so easily. To destroy

what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months.

Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.

My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village

as they pulled the flax. Songs so old

and so tied to the season that the very sound

seemed to turn the weather.

Another poem I love about fall has a more positive outlook on the season. The poem looks at the season from nature’s perspective, with a positive spin on the approaching winter. This poem is Song for Autumn by Mary Oliver.

Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now

how comfortable it will be to touch

the earth instead of the

nothingness of the air and the endless

freshets of wind? And don’t you think

the trees, especially those with

mossy hollows, are beginning to look for

the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep

inside their bodies? And don’t you hear

the goldenrod whispering goodbye,

the everlasting being crowned with the first

tuffets of snow? The pond

stiffens and the white field over which

the fox runs so quickly brings out

its long blue shadows. The wind wags

its many tails. And in the evening

the piled firewood shifts a little,

longing to be on its way.