Oars flash
against red
a plane arcs
into gold
and I think 
I could forget
my fear of flying

Last week, I took a cab to work and as we crossed over the Longfellow Bridge I was so moved, I took out my phone and wrote a poem. Autumn in Boston is profoundly beautiful. Seasons are often loose approximations of symbols and concepts that indicate the passage of time. But September, October, and November in Boston represent the actual platonic ideal of what autumn is. For weeks on end, each beam of light falls with a sweetness, each rustle of trees both comforting and exciting with mystery. Even driving on the highway becomes a breathtaking endeavor, as you’re cradled on both sides by a prism of foliage that is capable of reminding you of the ways in which we are all connected to the Earth.