Archives for posts with tag: fall


“That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.”

RAY BRADBURYThe October Country

by Virginie Colline

Autumn days full of secrets
along the quays of the Seine
books and trees
share their leaves 
in a single breath

PAINTING: “Booksellers along the Seine, Notre-Dame View” by Edouard Cortès

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Virginie Colline lives and writes in Paris. Her poetry recently appeared in Poethead, In OtherWordsMérida, Subliminal Interiors, Zizek Press Synchronized Chaos, and the Silver Birch Press Summer Anthology.

by Yosa Buson (1716-1784)

on the mountain crests
a line of wild geese
and the moon’s seal


by Yosa Buson

the beginning of autumn:
what is the fortune teller
looking so surprised at? 


Poem by Amy Lowell

All day I have watched the purple vine leaves
Fall into the water.
And now in the moonlight they still fall
But each leaf is fringed with silver.

Illustration: Zelda Richardson, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

by Bruce Weigl

I watch the woods for deer as if I’m armed.
I watch the woods for deer who never come.
I know the hes and shes in autumn
rendezvous in orchards stained with fallen
apples’ scent. I drive my car this way to work
so I may let the crows in corn believe
it’s me their caws are meant to warn,
and snakes who turn in warm and secret caves
they know me too. They know the boy
who lives inside me still won’t go away.
The deer are ghosts who slip between the light
through trees, so you may only hear the snap
of branches in the thicket beyond hope.
I watch the woods for deer, as if I’m armed. 

 Photo: Mark P. Jones, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

“My Autumn Leaves” is found in My Unraveling Strangeness, Bruce Weigl’s 2002 poetry collection from Grove Press. Find the book at


“Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.”  From Breakfast at Tiffany’s by TRUMAN CAPOTE

Photo: “Balcony, Gramercy Park, October” by Bill CunninghamNew York TImes, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Poem by Amy Lowell

This afternoon was the color of water falling through sunlight; 
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves; 
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves, 
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows. 
Under a tree in the park, 
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces, 
Were carefully gathering red berries 
To put in a pasteboard box. 
Some day there will be no war, 
Then I shall take out this afternoon 
And turn it in my fingers, 
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate, 
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves. 
Today I can only gather it 
And put it into my lunchbox, 
For I have time for nothing 
But the endeavor to balance myself 
Upon a broken world. 

Painting: “Berry Picking Children on a Summer Day” by Gerda Wallander (1905)

by John Clare

The wild duck startles like a sudden thought,

And heron slow as if it might be caught.

The flopping crows on weary wings go by

And grey beard jackdaws noising as they fly.

The crowds of starnels whizz and hurry by,

And darken like a clod the evening sky.

The larks like thunder rise and suthy round,

Then drop and nestle in the stubble ground.

The wild swan hurries height and noises loud

With white neck peering to the evening cloud.

The weary rooks to distant woods are gone.

With lengths of tail the magpie winnows on

To neighboring tree, and leaves the distant crow

While small birds nestle in the edge below.

Painting: “Autumn Birds” by Lin Fengmian (1901-1991), ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Learn more about the painting at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR (from John Clare (1793-1864) was an English poet, the son of a farm labourer, who came to be known for his celebratory representations of the English countryside and his lamentation of its disruption. His poetry underwent a major re-evaluation in the late 20th century and he is often now considered to be among the most important 19th-century poets. His biographer Jonathan Bate states that Clare was “the greatest labouring-class poet that England has ever produced. No one has ever written more powerfully of nature, of a rural childhood, and of the alienated and unstable self.”

Editor’s Note: I tried to find out the meaning of “starnels” and “suthy” without success. So interpret as you will. I will picture “starnels” as birds covered in stars and define “suthy” as  “soar all around.” Would love to hear your thoughts!


“Thanksgiving is the holiday of peace, the celebration of work and the simple life… a true folk-festival that speaks the poetry of the turn of the seasons, the beauty of seedtime and harvest, the ripe product of the year…” RAY STANNARD BAKER (1870-1946), one of the first investigative journalists, who also wrote books for children under the pseudonym DAVID GRAYSON

Drawing: “Harvest Moon,” pastel by Jamie Pitts, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED