None would have believed last fall—
a serene, simple season of coolish
weather, baseball season winding
down, tailgating, leaf peeping,
early frosts all—sublime memories
of a time before now: wildfires,
hurricanes, Covid deaths, floods,
earthquakes, melting ice caps,
hummingbirds astray and lost,
migrant camps afire, baseball
season so bizarre even umpires
get the blues. We need more
Whitmans, fewer Plaths, a couple
of Frosts, a seashore Oliver.
Even an old-fashioned Wordsworth
or Shelley might spirit us away
toward winter already on its way
on this first week of autumn.
Earl J. Wilcox has sung his share of September songs.
