Soul Season

If autumn isn’t your favorite season,

You don’t have a soul.

I’m sorry I’m the one

Who had to break it to you.

I’m sure you’re very nice, and maybe even

Susceptible to Mozart, but no soul.

Spring’s empty promises are fine for girls,

And summer’s raw seduction is a boy’s hot dream,

But full-grown human persons need a mellower joy,

And winter is for Russians

And their drunk, mad Russian bears.

So give me autumn, with its crisping leaves,

Sharp wind, rich odor, and long winterish nights.

Give me the smell of smoke among the trees,

The many-colored world, the crunching light,

And over all the smug, warm knowledge that my soul,

Battered as it may be,

Is still in me.