I thank you for your view of a view of autumn, Keats <br />who never saw your own autumn with its actual pitfalls. <br />Yours was the autumn of childhood, of hope, or romance, of belief, <br />my mother's autumn though not that of her hardworking family, <br />yours was never my father's autumn, season of mists, <br />and yours is not mine. My autumn <br />for all I would like to subscribe to your lavish play, <br />is like yours only in single ways each year, <br />perhaps there are swallows making a din, <br />or plums and apples falling wasp-eaten, unharvestable. <br />There is no sickle in my vocabulary or shed, <br />my autumn is based more on dread of the winter <br />and having had so little time each summer <br />to tidy or attend to the garden. Last year <br />early snow fell on flower baskets ditched from the street <br />and remained both snow and baskets until the spring <br />leaving me two seasons behind, without strategy <br />for a fast approaching repeat autumn, little wonder <br />and no chance to make anything faintly rhyme, <br />such is our modern poetry and life<br /><br />Sally Evans<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/season-of-mists/
