The season is in midswing. The weather station warns that freeze has come; the growing season ends. Gather in your harvest. Snow has been seen, recorded. But weather is fickle, and warm days will soon replace this chill, for a little while longer, before winter descends. One Two Three (This last is Ralph Richardson, and the poem starts at 2:40, but the whole clip is pretty fantastic.) (And this is an examination of the poem, from The Guardian, by Carol Rumens.) Recite a poem today, that expansive thing.