Autumn begins in two tongues: one of earth, the other of heaven.
On the first of September, man’s calendar declares the season changed,
and farmers nod, for their fields cool and harvest beckons.
This is autumn measured by the turning of months,
practical, steadfast, sure.
Yet the sky keeps her own slower time.
Not until the Sun stoops to the equator,
balancing day and night in equal span,
does nature herself unveil the crown of fall.
Thus autumn lives in both decree and dance—
a season written by men upon the page,
and by the heavens upon the stars.
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