I love everything about the 'ber months, the changing leaves, cooler temperatures and cozier moments shared with loved ones. Every fall, I wax nostalgic about the poetry of my youth; Robert Frost recited in my father's rich baritone. Perhaps this year more than most because the days left with him are fewer than the ones passed.
As a child, it wasn't the classical bedtime stories for me, but rather Birches, The Road Less Traveled and Nothing Gold Can Stay. He created a Narnia of sorts for us, painted with images of his New England boyhood and the art of noticing the beauty in simple things.
When I miss him and the purity of our early years I pull my worn copy of Mr. Frost's works from the shelf and hold my father close. The gift of poetry shared still, beyond time and space. This morning when I opened the collection at random, the words poured forth what I feel he'd wish to say.
"I am overtired of the harvest I myself desired."
Seasons change in nature as in life and I am now the one to read a verse at his bedside. Cherish the days, that turn to seasons, for in time they are the comfort of a poetic life well lived.
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