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.
(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.