Light, life and love always begin with the individual I can see the glass half empty or half full When the sun shatters the darkness of night, and we rise to a new day.

I love you Because no two snowflakes are alike And it is possible If you stand tippy-toe To walk between the raindrops.

The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me And I cannot, cannot go.

Chattin’ an’ braggin’ a bit with the men, Buildin’ the old family circle again; Livin’ the wholesome an’ old-fashioned cheer, Just for awhile at the end of the year.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run.

Someday this will be called an artifact, The spine of an old ship, hardened by the sea, Built to remain for centuries intact And beautiful because it had to be.

How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn.

And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?

I spot the hills With yellow balls in autumn. I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins.

A dried leaf crumbles at a touch, But I have seen many Autumns With herons blowing like smoke Across the sky.

The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mold The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.

The day is yet one more yellow leaf and without turning I kiss the light by an old well on the last of the month gathering wild rose hips in the sun.

I stand as the black water Of each wave’s backwash Hugs my hip boots Making little stars of light As the water “fires” around my legs.

For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together. For nature, it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad.

As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away, — Too imperceptible, at last, To seem like perfidy.

Blue poured into summer blue, A hawk broke from his cloudless tower, The roof of the silo blazed, and I knew That part of my life was over.

Among the first we learn is good-bye, Your tiny wrist between Dad’s forefinger And thumb forced to wave bye-bye to Mom, Whose hand sails brightly behind a windshield.

The holidays were fruitful, but must end; One August evening had a cooler breath; Into each mind intruding duties crept; Under the cinders burned the fires of home.

The year’s best blueberry scone Gorgeous needlework being shown Iron skillets being thrown We recall what has always made the Vineyard unique.

Near the shore’s arm of dune that holds the pond, A kayak glides, Someone seeking peace And looking up to find it in the sky.