Some are happiest when autumn comes,

Long for turning leaves, aficionados of first frost,

Put out gourds, ornamental sheaves of wheat.

They dress front porches as forsaken tombs,

Imagine themselves ghoul, zombie, and ghost,

Use kitchen knives to jab holes in sheets.

They relish mornings when windows are panes of ice,

Yearn to don soft panoplies of scarves and gloves,

And wait all year to welcome the hard freeze

That forces birds south, woodchucks to earth, mice

To infiltrate warm cupboards, learn to love

All that leans into its finish, truly pleased

To bask in bereavement’s graceful glow,

Alive in it, until it, too, must go.

A Message from the Editors

Our past successes are owed to our greatest ambassadors: our readers. Our future rests on your support, as The New Criterion Editor Roger Kimball explains. Will you help us continue to bring our incisive review of the arts and culture to the next generation of readers?

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 34 Number 1, on page 26
Copyright © 2017 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
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