How can any spirit be grey in autumn?
Are they blind to the bursts of crimson,
ochre, vermillion and chartreuse?
The various leaves of trees and shrubs
Bursting brilliantly in sweet self-sacrifice,
Their crispy husks littering the street like confetti,
Is this not the season of celebration?
The sweaty labors of summer are over,
The stores and cellars are full to bursting.
The moonlit, fireside life wanes to fullness,
The stars gather to join us for dinner.
Clouds hug the ground and hide the sun,
Scattering the sharp contrasts of daylight.
The brisk breezes and bare branches
Teasing us with discomfort and deadness.
So we bundle up with scarves and gloves
And compete to become more comfortable.
With warm woolen hats, and rubber boots
To stomp down puddles and kick up leaves,
We are armored against the onslaught
Of dreariness that hangs in the quiet air.
We will not let the brief candle of our joy
Be blown out by a cold and careless breeze.
The sweet scent of an extinguished flame
Will be met by the stench of a struck match.
The flame will stubbornly shine in the face
Of all frowning sleepers and mouth-breathers.
Without shame we will frolic in the fields
Of the dead and the frozen, savoring
The crunch and the snap and the slip of ice
With our clumsy numb limbs like newborn calves.
We will stage silliness to spite the scrooges
Who scowl so severely at our innocent antics.
We will raise and army of ugly snowmen
We will throw snowballs at all who come close
We will slide down slopes on cardboard sleds
And sustain ourselves with sweets and warm soup.