I've been drawn to poetry lately. I've often skirted the bard's circle. 
Here and there, I would sample a literary bit. But, I never went all in 
and I've been drawn to poetry lately. I've often skirted the bards' 
circle. Here and there, I would sample a literary bit. But, I never went 
all in to consume huge bites of poetry.

But now, I find certain poets speak to me.  They are mostly old white guys
at the end of the road. They are writing in the Autumn of their lives and
facing that long road that ends in a quiet field where the grass is
overgrown and the gates creek, quiet places where the only sound is the
crow's caw. You know where I mean.

We are now well into Autumn, and the trees begin to bare their branches. 
Friendly crickets have gone quiet. The storms that bring winter come 
wildly up the coast. These are the days that see the geese fly and the 
browned rows of harvest past lie in silent fields. 

I noticed the other day, a cold morning, that the sounds outside
were crisp and clean. And I love that by 5 PM night shadows the landscape.  
There is a richness here that no other season of the year matches. The 
things that endure make their presence known.

Back to poets, I came across the Poetry Foundation's website while 
tracking down W. H. Auden and found this End of Summer poem by Stanley 
Kunitz that I'd like to share. I must note that there is a bleakness to 
the ending of this composition. But, that is the cycle of life. Even the 
end of Autumn teaches us much.

End of Summer
a poem by Stanley Kunitz
foound at 
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/54898/end-of-summer-56d235ce0824f

An agitation of the air,
A perturbation of the light
Admonished me the unloved year
Would turn on its hinge that night.
 
I stood in the disenchanted field
Amid the stubble and the stones,
Amazed, while a small worm lisped to me
The song of my marrow-bones.
 
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.
 
Already the iron door of the north
Clangs open: birds, leaves, snows
Order their populations forth,
And a cruel wind blows.

Checkout the other Autumn poems at:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/collections/101590/fall-poems