Seasons in Flux
Up on the hills, the leaves have already begun to change.
The mornings are cool.
If you stand on the porch, you can hear the geese honking,
moving South in their flying V formations,
early this year.
The grass, already, has slowed its growing.
Winter it seems, is determined to come early,
not an unusual thing here in Vermont.
No one blinks an eye at it all. The old timers
just nod their head like ancient sages.
They know what is coming. They have lived it
over a generation and more.
Looking over the valley, you see smoke rising
from brick chimneys, In a day or two it will be gone,
part of this fickle time between seasons,
between this hot and cold time of September
that reflects your mood.
You feel home at here, where seasons are always in flux,
too often neither one not the other, perpetually uncertain
which way the wind blows, from the north or the south.
They accept you here, despite your mix of madnesses.
You are part of the scenery, nothing more.
Blending in with the seasons, but never quite
About this poem
The leaves have begun to change already here in Southern Vermont. And at night and early in the morning, you can hear the geese flying south. I trust nature more than science when it comes to the predictions of weather.
I was one of those kids that never felt like I fit in. I still don’t really. But the difference is that at some point in life you just shrug and say “and that’s OK.”
The picture was taken down the road from me. Last season though. We’re not quite that far along. Yet.