Autumn’s my lover, my mother, my friend
She can reach me, can teach me, good fortune she’ll send;
If I stay close beside her on every tight bend
She will guide me, provide me, and stay to the end.
“My name’s Seasons,” she said, introducing herself in the college bar.
“Seasons? Great name! Your parents hippies?”
“No, Drew, just weird,” she laughed.
I suffered an attack of The Shys then.
“Gotta go,” I blurted, and ran away towards another tedious hour of trochaic tetrameter when I really wanted to be on a mountainside yelling Robert Browning poems at the sheep.