Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

Last night the back of summer broke. Yesterday was humid, hot and sunny, but at about four or five this morning a cold front rolled in, and now it’s autumn. The windows were open, and lying awake in the darkness I literally felt the new season come into the room. Within ten minutes the temperature had dropped fifteen degrees and lost all its humidity: it went from from uncomfortable to crisp. I had to put another blanket on, but I wouldn’t have shut the windows for anything. The change was wonderful, like a scene designer playing with lighting. The switch was flipped and everything was new.

My students so love summer that they bust out the flip-flops and T-shirts whenever a day in March hits 40 degrees. For them paradise is an eternal summer of shorts, Corona beers and patio bars: a wild pointillist confusion of loud swirling colors and laughter. In To Autumn, Keats writes that the honey bees have been deluded into thinking the warm days will never cease. Exactly, they’ve bought into the false promise of summer. Autumn just won't lie to you like that.

I kissed my first serious girlfriend on a blustery November day by a lake when the leaves were rustling around. She had been sipping a root beer and the memory of her warm nose and those sweet root beery lips in the chilly air.... Well.

Some people say spring is the season in which to fall in love. Don't believe them. The best of love is always autumnal.


Popular posts from this blog

Two Jars

The Betrayal of F. Scott Fitzgerald's Adverbs

Four Arguments for the Elimination of the Liberal Arts