The autumn harvest festivals, alas, are obsolete—
For living in the city, we don’t grow the foods we eat;
No evidence of seasonal change is there to be found,
When supermarkets stock the same foods all the year around.
And little of the seasons’ passing show is evident
From leafless trees in iron grates embedded in cement.
But though the beat of life has changed, it cannot obviate
The need to mark time’s passage, or the urge to celebrate.
And if through stone and asphalt nature’s changes scarcely show
We’ll greet each one consistent with the urban life we know ,
And gorge ourselves on turkey, mashed potatoes, and ice cream,
To give thanks for that wondrous day the landlord sends up steam.