I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan't be gone long.-- You come too.
I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by its mother. It's so young.
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I shan't be gone long.--You come too.
--The Pasture, Robert Frost
I know that this poem is about spring, with the tottering young calf and all that, but for me---it's so autumnal. Everything Frost writes feels that way to me though. And, after Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, who can blame me? I know, I know--that poem isn't about autumn either. The point is, Robert Frost (my very first favorite poet) is crisp apples picked at a local orchard, peacoat weather, driving a 1950s Ford pick-up truck down a smooth dirt road. His poetry is just enough of the chill in the air, warm apple cider (or hot chocolate) and a good book with a warm blanket by the fire. Robert Frost makes me want a hand to hold, and someone to cuddle with, even though so much of what he writes is a-lonely.
Robert Frost is responsible for me moving "up North," for autumn being my favorite season, and why I keep writing poetry.