I turned back the clock by 60 minutes, finally admitting that summer's alert pace has disappeared, giving way to a less rigorous and rather unpredictable stretch of time, if we are to agree with George Bacovia.
"A day without season and without military order."
(From Sunset - by George Bacovia)
Autumn benefits from a mysterious je ne sais quoi which seems to keep in balance the past and the future without any plans for either.
Hence, it behooves to us, on and off poetry aficionados, to decide what mindset to adopt once snowfalls begin.
Here is a possible alternative, eloquently argued by Canada's beloved author, Lucy Maud Montgomery:
"Come, for the dusk is our own; let us fare forth together,
With a quiet delight in our hearts for the ripe, still, autumn weather,
Through the rustling valley and wood and over the crisping meadow,
Under a high-sprung sky, winnowed of mist and shadow."
(From November Evening by Lucy Maud Montgomery)
The final suggestion belongs to French poet Guillaume Apollinaire:
"How bored I am between these naked walls
Painted in pale hues
A fly, in quaint and measured steps
Digresses over my paper and its unequal lines."
(From A la Santé by Guillaume Apollinaire)