Autumn by Ida Vitale translated by Sarah Pollack

“Autumn, dog

with affectionate, impertinent paws, rustles the leaves of the books.

He demands that you pay attentionto those fetching ones that are his, that futilely turn from greento gold to red to purple.

As if in distraction, the precise word escapes you forever.”

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Discussion

Is it only me or fall is the season for poetry ?

Keats would agree.