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.