Late August, cusp of autumn,/ and a ríver splits a forest/ where a man and his grandson/ down a slope to throw stones,/ Watch: their pebbles soar, hopscotch,/ then slip into the water’s skin,/ sketching, concentric circles that glint,/ thin edges colliding on the current,/ The beech tree watching from above/ forgets herself and drops a handful/ of leaves – golden, green -/ sending them scattering into the stream.

Doireann Ní Ghríoja

I don’t remember a time when I did not love the cusp of autumn. A time when I did not smell the first crispness of fallen leaves, the pillowy changed light that welcomes shadows and cracks and gold, and the river that carries away summer’s expectations. Autumn has always held me close. An October 1st baby, my first breath came in autumn. My first school year started in autumn, and I have always loved school. My favorite jobs have started in autumn, and not all jobs have been my favorite. When having your colors done was a thing, I think I was an autumn. I love to bake pumpkin bread, which is an Autumn thing, too.

Some people get autumn sad, lamenting the loss of summer’s long, carefree, sunshine-slathered days. I see it differently. Summer’s sparkle, even the sparkliest sparkle of summer, often leaves me breathless and sunburned. Now I am not anti-summer, I am just pro-change of seasons. I am not anti-hot, I am just pro-shade. I am pro-umbrellas, forest canopies, and river tributaries that wind around underneath big trees. I am definitely not anti-vacation. I am simply not pro-crowds and tourist seasons.

Maybe it all comes back to my birthday. I have always felt special in autumn.

Poet and author Doireann Ní Ghríofa recites Cusp of Autumn.