by NONA BLYTH CLOUD
I am by choice most thoroughly a creature of the West Coast convergence of sea and desert, which gives new meaning to “dry land.”
Autumn, when the sun recrosses the equator heading south, might tempt me to try a different country. There’s something very alluring about leaves turning amber and russet, then crackling underfoot, about light that glows in an ever-afternoon, and air that breathes soft and cool upon the skin but smells of smoke-tang and apple cider.
Yet while Time may tarry, it never stops. As sure as the sun, as constant as the constellations, Winter will follow Autumn. And then I look around my dry-scape of arroyos and beaches, content to be warmer than the creatures of that other country. Better earthquakes than blizzards for me.
In celebration of the glories of this enticing season, I offer two very different poets.
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