I'm late to this thread and confess I haven't read it in its entirely. So apologies if I cover old ground. However I see the ramping up of Fall poems across the way, so it got me thunkin'...
It's an interesting (though perhaps ill--fated) poetic challenge to re-imagine Fall without recourse to leaves, amber, crunching sounds or rakes. Can it be done, or has the season itself been permanently consigned to certain obligatory touchstones?
Graves (notoriously stingy over the appellation of 'poet') suggests that poetry is inseparable from the rhythms of moon (and menstrual) cycles, crop yields, fallow and pregnant fields, etc. Thus poetry itself is a celebration of the seasonal ebb and flow of fertility. Surely the modern, urban (urbane?) poet might take exception to this very narrow furrow.
Does Fall have residual meaning beyond fertility in abeyance, in which case the onslaught of falling leaves may become well-nigh unavoidable?
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