I will not love Autumn

Autumn is the slow, agonizing death of Summer
(Summer, which dies, and is reborn in Spring,
which grows in the womb of Time)

Autumn is the grasping fingers of chilly Winter,
of chilly Death
It is a season of restlessness before the season of rest
It is a season of waning light, before a long watch
in the darkness

Autumn is the slow tumbling
of living things
into dormancy
Autumn is the slow dimming
of embers
in the year's flame

It calls to me
to run, and fly, and swim;
to breed, to feed, to bury;
to spin out
over and over
beneath the sky

It brings the spices
and sweetness
of savory foods,
of burning wood,
of falling leaves,
of fresh hay

(It reminds us
of how temporary we all are,
even though the Sun, like a phoenix,
will rise again)

and, yet,
I will not love Autumn