Poet to Poet

Dear Reader, Can you recall the smell of your childhood pencil box? I can. I’ve got it right here along with my mother’s Hermes 3000 typewriter, the typewriter I started hunting and pecking on when I was little, with its dusty ink smell and stiff keys. Every once in a while I crack the lid, inhale, and come back to myself. Fall is like that. It’s nostalgic, it sharpens our senses. It's melancholy on one hand, exuberant on the other. As Ada Limon writes in The Hurting Kind, “It’s the Season I...