Two days ago I arranged my fall decorations—beautiful glass pumpkins, red and yellow leaves. This morning it was too cold on the terrace to sit there. Autumn is here.

There’s something about the changing of the seasons that is sacred, which Emily Dickinson captured in this poem:

These are the days when Birds come back--

A very few--a Bird or two--

To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies resume

The old--old sophistries of June--

A blue and gold mistake.

Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee--

Almost thy plausibility

Induces my belief.

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear--

And softly thro' the altered air

Hurries a timid leaf.

Oh Sacrament of summer days,

Oh Last Communion in the Haze--

Permit a child to join.

Thy sacred emblems to partake--

Thy consecrated bread to take

And thine immortal wine!

You write or draw it: What is the changing of seasons to you?

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