In autumn, the earth rolls out her red carpet,
not in welcome of her wintry death,
but to spend summer’s riches in a final mad fling
before the bitter frost returns to chase
her extravagance beneath the soil.
Summer’s heady, wanton bounty–
boozy-sweet stone fruits in baby-soft plenitude,
bright fragrant cherries tart-sweet in the sun,
tender-skinned strawberries with their hearts on their sleeves–
give way to crisp apples, wine-dark berries, armored gourds.
The impending kiss of frost sets her guard
and turns her gaze inward
after summer’s loose gaiety.
Growth slows,
but it is stronger growth for the slowness.
Roots deepen. Flowers fade.
Fragile petals give way to the pennants of trees as they march
trudging with heads high and colors raised towards their valiant end.
Autumn is passionate, velvet-eyed, yet with a bitter edge:
port wine, dark chocolate.
Fire dances on the hillsides, and dark blood
glistens at the ends of curling thorny vines.
Autumn air feels stretched
between abandonment and restraint;
a girl bidding farewell to her soldier boy as he leaves for war.
She longs to say everything, give everything–yet
to leave nothing unspent feels like a prophecy.
One last dance, one last heartfelt kiss, one last tearful embrace,
but quietly, defiantly
she holds back.
Her stored-up affections become a talisman
for the tomorrows she hopes will come.
Mad urgency grapples with longing
to linger.
As he goes, her tears, hot and alive,
turn to ice on wind-chapped cheeks.
Part of her will lie buried until his return. When–
if–
she is unearthed, she will have changed
despite both their wish
to preserve all just as they remember it at this moment.
Autumn’s song is not the lark of springtime,
nor the wild bacchanal of summer,
nor the keening wails and transcendent silences of winter.
It is the wind’s whisper over purpled heather,
a wistful smile and a voiceless lament.
The warmth of the autumn sun is haunted
by a wind that grows sharper each day, gathering
shards of winter into the portent of ever-darkening nights.
Yet Autumn’s lamp against the darkness is her hope
that the sun will warm the land again, and so she labors
over her seeds, carefully padding them about
with the fleshy and substantial profits of summer,
even as she shares her abundance with the hungry.
She lays her hopes aside with care,
nourished, protected, safe. But as they lay there
beneath the riotous leaves,
the moldering confetti of summer’s going-away party,
those seeds will change
as much as they remain the same.
The new year is born of these hopes;
it is Autumn’s prudent forbearance (too often unsung)
that secures our futures, playing her part
amidst Winter’s introverted restfulness,
Spring’s tender bravery,
and Summer’s joyful exultation.
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