And now comes the best season
Not yet the brilliant leaves,
The pumpkin and the cranberries,
The fragrance and the crackling underfoot.
No. This is the hour of silence.
The muffled whispers and the white stillness
The hazy rivers and the haunted shadows
Now is the season of the mist
Drifting along the surface of the ponds,
Rising in a curtain across the fields
Revealing hidden streams
Unfamiliar phantoms fill the farmyards.
Fog swirls and thickens.
The traveler, lost a mile from home,
Finds himself forsaken in an unknown world.
And the swamp, mysterious on the most prosaic days,
Yields herself to the enchantment,
Waits as the ghostly wisps weave themselves through her branches,
Now concealing, now revealing
Her deepest secrets.
Further along the road, a tree-encircled field
Becomes a giant bowl that fills with clouds
Like smoking incense from a thurible
Pouring a last cool benediction across the road
Before the sun’s heat burns the mystery from the day.