wistful, woeful, regretful. No joy in the passing of seasons, no flare of nostrils at the smell of snow in the clouds? I was left feeling as though there’s more to be said, explaining why a rift of leaves has come between you, but perhaps that’s best left up to our imagination, which may have been your intent. Chin up, pencil down. Carry on

Now that I have an assumption about what is separating the narrator from the addressed, I like this poem a lot more.  It was a mystery to me for a long time and even though I can’t lay it to rest completely, I feel satisfied with my conclusion.  I am appropriately sad .

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Great poem Autumn is my favorite season my daughter and I were outside and she was riding her balance bike through the leave piles.

It’s a shame but I think poetry is a dying art. I wish kids would put down the video games and do something more creative that’s why childhood obesity in America is such a big problem too many lazy kids.

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