You are my favorite, you know.   Oh, sure, 
there are times you make me sad.  But jumping
in leaves you send pirouetting down helps chase them
off.   Sound tickles -- like Rice Krispies:  snap, crackle,
pop!  Who can stay blue with you holding all these fashion
shows?  That pill Charles Dickens dubbed Mrs. Micawber
cracked a smile in the fall, I bet.   Have to love Jack Frost’s
outrageousness.  Way he sees that yellow, orange, wine,
and gold are woven into every shade of green.  Persimmon
and aubergine all the rage this year, my dears.  Frost  so wise
to include the gray that signals the maturity to let go and meld
with rain, snow, and the other things spring has ordered
for the show it is planning.

You’re so generous.  Christmas and Chanuka without the hunts
for gifts and elaborate meals to prepare.   I find myself humming
School Days, School Days, and running mental hands over
spanking new notebook paper ruled with blue and daffodil-
yellow pencils sharpened to elegant points.  Chat about
drop-add, teachers, dorms, and loveboats pepper air already
spiced with the smell of bonfire-roasting hot dogs
and marshmallows.  Crude stick I whittle triggers laughs
as it bursts into flames.  Cooling nights ripen with the subtle
but distinctive odor of cedar-chip-stored wool, smoke,
and hints of rain.  Footballs thunk, and cheers go up.    Students
pile into coffee houses and pizza parlors to relax or check
to see if part-time jobs are available.  Perfume from hastily
unpacked shampoo stirs into the musk rising from leaves,
exhaust,  and, as Dickens wrote, High Expectations.  All goes
so fast.   Takes your breath away. 

Thank you for taking me with you.  See you next year, I trust.

Avid Fan