Celebrating autumn in Nebraska

In a tradition that dates back nearly 40 years, my sister and I have for many years collaborated on writing a poem that celebrates fall, a season that make us both mushy with nostalgia and produces a strange sort of angst that neither of us can adequately describe. 
But we try!
It generally begins with one of us sending the other an envelope containing the first stanza of an ode to autumn, usually accompanied by a few colorful leaves just to get the seasonal inspiration flowing. 
We haven’t done it every fall, but over the years we’ve probably written something like 10 or 15 fall poems of varying lengths. 
Since last year was my first fall living in Nebraska and since she has also experienced a few Nebraska autumns (Before she was married she taught school for several years near Scottsbluff), I started it off by sending the obligatory leaves with the title and opening four lines of a poem I gave the portmanteau title “Nebraskautumn.” 
I also gave her guidance that the focus was to be on the uniqueness of fall in the Cornhusker State and said I wanted to give it a kind of whimsical Dr. Seuss meter and vibe. After several exchanges through the U.S. Mail I think we achieved our goal, but I’ll let you, the reader, be the final judge of that.

Nebraskautumn

Few things are more delightful
Than getting to the bottom
Of giving definition to that time
I’ll call Nebraskautumn.
 
Its quintessential splendor
Really can’t be overstated.
For ethereal celestiality
No other time’s related.
 
The golden luminescence
Of October’s harvest orb
Gives a scintillating feeling
That the soul cannot absorb.
 
Is it hunger? Is it pain?
Is it footprints on my heart?
Left by sweet and haunting memories
Of Nebraskautumns... Where to start?
 
Of dusty roads and windmills
Grazing cattle, windswept plain
Of splendific brilliant sunsets
Over stubbly fields of grain.
 
Is it grinning, glowing pumpkins
Carved by little Husker bumpkins
Or the rainbow swirls of leaves
That this Autumn magic weaves?
 
Is it singing, laughing hayrack riders?
Bright air as crisp as apple cider?
Do the bonfires’ smoky s’mores
Bring on this ache for yesteryore?
 
Is it distant sounds of flying geese
Or the thrill of festive autumn feasts?
Is it chili days or chilly nights
That make our fancy take its flight?
 
It’s no doubt all of these and so much more
So we’ll embrace each one and share the lore.
We can’t define it, so we’ll just resign it
Mine all its gold and then refine it.
 
These golden days will soon be past.
Enjoy ‘em now, ‘cuz they won’t last. 
All year long we’ve yenned and sought ‘em
These days of sweet Nebraskautumn.

RON BURTZ can be reached at newsregister@hamilton.net