A Poem for the First Full Day of Autumn

The Harvest Moon by Ted Hughes from Season Songs (Faber & Faber)
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing, 
A vast balloon, 
Till it takes off, and sinks upward 
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon. 
The harvest moon has come, 
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon. 
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum. 

So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!

And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.

Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry `We are ripe, reap us!' and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.

Harvest Moon by George Heming Mason

It's the first full day of autumn here in the northern hemisphere and from the activity in my backyard early this morning, I suspect the birds must sense the seasons have changed.  The robins and wrens have been feeding with a frenzy since dawn, plucking red berries from amidst the dappled leaves of the dogwood trees and poking around the fading wildflower garden for any lingering insects.  

I've been feeling that burst of fall energy as well-- making to do lists (actually a to do notebook as my Facebook friends know), reorganizing my home office, cleaning and clearing out clutter.  I think part of this energy, both mine and that of the birds, is an innate urge to prepare for winter.  Even though we haven't had our first frost yet, the robins are plumping up their rusty breasts and beginning to form flocks, while I'm replenishing my tea stocks and bringing up sweaters from the basement wardrobe.  

At the same time, though, I don't want to rush or work my way through autumn, missing out on its delights.  I want to be aware of the snap of yet another new-to-me tart apple from the farmer's market, pause as I notice the slightly deeper blue of the September sky, breathe in the old book scent of falling leaves.  One reason I chose today's poem by Ted Hughes is that it's one of the few autumn poems I have read that is truly focused on the present moment-- no lamenting the fruitfulness of summer or the songs of spring, no fretting about the cold winter days to come-- simply a celebration of a single autumn evening. 

(If you missed this year's harvest moon last week, you can take a quick break from being in the present to check out some great images on the EarthSky website here.)