Other than love, probably one of the most tried (or trite) and true subjects for poetry is the change of seasons. There are a few new things to say on the topic, however, sadly enough. Here goes:
A Change of Seasons The fall is come And the days are doing what they call "Drawing in." And I too am drawing in, Shutting down and pulling in My seasonal feelers Like a snail's antennae, Because sounds will be different in winter, When they are muted by the snowfall. My aspirations too Are becoming flat characters, Losing their roundedness, No longer speaking of fully realized possibilities But now only signaling outlines of things Which may or may not come. We have no hope of escaping Without leaving the temperate zone, Though meteorologists are already disputing Inches of white, feet of rain, Days' light, Nights' dark, While what will come will come Whether they argue or not. And it's not especially dread that I feel, For I'm used to it by now. The unsettling element is rather That things are now topsy-turvy, And for certain days of autumn, it's summer, For some days of winter, it's autumn or even July, For some days of spring too, it'll be An early and undue warm season, Then back into a retrograde deep freeze on days When we expect the sun to be smiling. We are even getting used to climate change, The adaptability of humans Being apparently our biggest selling point. But perhaps the question is due to Nature, Or the gods, or Fate, or whatever you may happen To believe in, "How hard is it to change?" What else should we be asking, We, who are at least partly to blame For this untoward state of affairs, Given our ability to adapt, Shouldn't we practice Adapting our selfishness and greed, Instead of trying to figure out how To make the earth spin round in the opposite direction? Even now, experts try to figure out how we can control the weather-- Wouldn't it be easier, and more economical, All things considered, To learn to control ourselves? That would be a change of seasons I could really get into.
©Victoria Leigh Bennett, 10/17/17
This isn’t a particularly “poetic” poem; in fact, it more than borders on the prosaic. Nonetheless I wanted to share the point of view. There may be better poems for other days.