Emily Dickinson wrote a poem about fall that begins 'The morns are meeker than they were'. It's a beautiful but puzzling description. Every fall I think about that line, and check the mornings for meekness. I've never found it, and I wonder that she did. She lived in Massachusetts, not the mildest place, and I imagine her falls were like the ones I've known - a sharpening into color and cold.
This is the season I love best. Meek or not, I'm glad it's here.
