Tom’s eyes lit up. “So it’s not a rule. It’s a choice .”
“So,” he whispered, “can I keep ‘Fall’?”
June set down her fork. “Well,” she said slowly, “if you’re writing a newsletter or a business report, ‘winter’ is lowercase. But if you’re writing a poem, or a story where the season is a character—where Winter has a cold hand and a silver tongue—then you can capitalize.” is a season capitalized
“Lowercase ‘f’,” she said, circling the offending letter. “Seasons are common nouns, not proper nouns. ‘Fall’ is only capitalized if it’s part of a title or a proper name, like the ‘Fall Formal’ dance.”
“It doesn’t matter what it feels like,” Lila replied, tapping the style guide. “It’s not a person, place, or brand. You wouldn’t capitalize ‘table’ just because you like it.” Tom’s eyes lit up
From then on, they had a new rule at home: everyday seasons stayed lowercase—spring cleaning, summer vacation, winter coat. But their shared moments—the first snowfall, the last day of summer, the perfect October afternoon—those got capital letters. Because some seasons, like some people, earn the extra height.
Lila looked out the window. The maple tree in their yard was a blaze of orange and red. The air smelled like woodsmoke. And for the first time, she saw it: not just a period on the calendar, but a slow, glorious performance—a character in its own right. “Well,” she said slowly, “if you’re writing a
The argument smoldered through September. He sent her texts about “Summer Love” and “Winter Dreams.” She corrected them with automated replies: Seasons are lowercased unless personified in poetry. He started a playful list on the fridge: “Reasons to Capitalize Spring (1. Hope. 2. Rebirth. 3. Tom said so.)” She added a footnote: See CMOS 8.36.