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.

August rushes by like desert rainfall, A flood of frenzied upheaval, Expected, But still catching me unprepared. Like a matchflame Bursting on the scene.

And now the crickets plug in their appliances in unison, and then the fireflies flash dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation.

High in the evening elm the robin tries his notes . . . To sleep, to sleep, while star by star the sky opens, and far and high eternity rides by.

Remember you are all people and all people are you. Remember you are this universe and this universe is you. Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.

Ballerinas go to Swan Neck Point; Bankers to Dividend Beach. All men go to the various Heads. But who goes to Quansoo?

That beautiful season the Summer! Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; And the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.