(remember to click on the images to experience a more beautiful world)
from verdant green
to flaming colors
no rainbow ever dreamed
but the trees dare
from flourishing fields
of growing grain
to shorn earth
of tawny stubble
the wheel turns
draws to a close
and the growing season
meets its maker
across the path
stirring more poignantly
whatever wistful nostalgia
might have blossomed
late before the frost
this perishing moment
is an eternity
Though we are weeks away from the true beginning of Autumn and the change in weather, there are always foreshadowings that occur long before the season arrives.
The honking of Canada Geese from overhead – small family flocks, this year’s hatchlings, flying for the first time. Preparing for their long migration to come.
Acorns, (the Oak-Corn) falling to the ground, which everyone associates with Autumn, actually happens in late August each year, and has already begun.
Also in August, invariably to my recollection, we suddenly have a spat of very cool, fall-like weather, right in the midst of the heat of late summer. Which we just experienced these last two days.
And this cool spell casts a spell upon certain of the trees, coaxing them to scatter a few yellowed leaves upon the ground.
Thoreau said: “Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.”
We are awash in the constant flow. In the ticking of the clock. In the earth’s incremental journey around the sun. In the joy of watching children grow up. In the aging of our own bodies. And yet each moment speaks to us of eternity.
gracefully the trees shed their summer cloaks
surrendering all outer life, to go deep within
as the dark nights lengthen, the season of frost settles
and the wind blows cold
while we don our winter coats
preserving our hot-blooded lives
yet still the dark and the cold and the wind
coax us to turn inward
deep into the roots of our being
a grace bestowed
to waltz with you
and twirl the litheness
of your being
through the gentle fall
and cascading whirl
of sanguine autumn leaves
until tree leafs become snowflakes
and the kindled warmth
of our clasped souls
melts a sphere
for the season’s dance
to now and ever last
Not only misery, but melancholy also loves company. For those who might like to share a bit over a misty cup of tea, here is your indulgence. But I must follow this up with John Keat’s “Ode to Autumn”, for the season would not be complete without it. Thank you, Adrienne, for sharing Mr. Hood’s reflections!
I Saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;—
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,
Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds?—Away, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noonday,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.
Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest
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