Sometimes a poem is like a fever that flares up in the heart and set the fingers burning: They blaze out on the page, scribbling their inward fury until the fuel is spent and the heart is left exhausted. Other times the warmth of spring settles on the soul, and by fragrant winds and a warming sun communicates a lightness to our words and allows us to share the joy of life with one another. Then winter comes. We walk with Slow, even tread, afraid to slip Into the icy cold below, Or to slide out of control -- Headed we know not where -- And so we let our rigid forms protect us From the threat of self-disaster. These things have their season too. And no more can one write out of moment Than mistake the night for day Or find in the gaze of the moon That same glaring brilliance of the sun. These things have their time -- Which leaves me waiting for the days like autumn When summer's plumage is bedecked on winter trees, And in her eagerness to shake off his chilly blight She explodes into a million shades of purple and maroon. When my poems have this in them, I smile, Remembering the rapture of one Virginia fall Seen through a child's eyes When leaves, like rivers, flowed to the ground And I learned to rejoice at the very fact of Nature. From that day until this I look back at those times with nostalgia; Happy at least that in the seasons of poetry They come back to visit me every once in a while.