Autumn / Devation - Echoes of Thoreau VII

Autumn… Yellow, red, and softer shades. Pale, but hardly sorrowful. Wet, but not in tears at all. With the falling drops the leaves descend. No haste to reach the ground; as though they know the place they’re going. How willingly they soften, come apart, to mingle with the roots… What once was lifted toward the light they now return to earth. Where once the tree had laid its shade, it spreads its leaves instead. We litter every place with all that we consume, yet even in its scattering it leaves us looking on in wonder. Autumn… With fallen leaves it turns the ground to gold. What we leave behind stays strange to the soil for years. What autumn leaves, with the first rain, smells of coming home. A leaf falls in my palm. Its veins are clear as ever. The little roads that carried light all summer now softly turn to earth. “Which season is your favourite?” How seldom does its name become an answer… Winter has its snow, summer has its sea, spring its green, its birdsong in the trees… Autumn… The season with the fewest fans. Perhaps its beauty asks of us a little more devotion. Like remembering those who leave us, even so… Autumn… At winter’s threshold, bearing word. The cold does not come storming in. First, evening comes home a little early. Then, through an open window, a thread of chill slips in. A message to the cicada, and to the ant as well… For the one who sings, time for one last verse; for the one who gathers, a few more days of light. Winter knocks with autumn’s hand. Before it enters, it lets us know. Like tender smoke, the mist ascends among the trees, as if to draw the distant nearer. I think of smoke from Native American fires. A message lifted to the sky, waiting for an eye far off to see. If only each greeting had been met with one returned. But some who came looked at the trees and saw no forest— only land that could be theirs. A line was drawn across the earth. The mist passed over. The birds passed over. The leaves fell on either side. “Which season is your favourite?” How seldom does its name become an answer… Winter has its snow, summer has its sea, spring its green, its birdsong in the trees… Autumn… The season with the fewest fans. Perhaps its beauty asks of us a little more devotion. Like remembering those who leave us, even so… Autumn… Not sorrowful, really. We feel for it, and think it must be so. We hang our own farewells upon its branches, then call the tree forlorn. Perhaps, in everything we think resembles us, we see ourselves a little too much. The tree, meanwhile, prepares for winter. It lets its leaves go, slows its growing. And while we watch the naked branches, it keeps the coming spring inside its little buds. To think what has not opened is not there— that is our impatience. In the morning I feed my starter for the bread. In the cooler kitchen it takes more time to rise. Passing by the jar, I think of autumn: how little seems to change, how much goes on within. Out in the garden, under rain-soaked leaves, another season’s table is quietly being laid. The earth takes what is left in its care and slowly works it back into life. Autumn… It does not take everything away. A few leaves on a branch, some green beside the fence, in the noon sun an unexpected warmth remain. We, too, have days like these. We speak a little less, wish to come home a little early. Yet at the door a small life catches our eye. I wait as it comes closer, careful with one paw; then bend and set a bowl before it. The air is cool. I let my hand linger. I take the path again. A leaf has caught upon my sleeve. How long it has been walking with me, I cannot say. I lift it off and lay it at a tree’s foot. I do not search for the branch it came from. A little wind moves it along. Farther down, another falls. Behind me, the path is slowly covered. “Which season is your favourite?” How seldom does its name become an answer… Winter has its snow, summer has its sea, spring its green, its birdsong in the trees… Autumn… The season with the fewest fans. Perhaps its beauty asks of us a little more devotion. Like remembering those who leave us, even so… Autumn… Yellow, red, and softer shades. Pale, but hardly sorrowful. Wet, but not in tears at all. Another leaf falls. I follow it with my eyes. There on the ground, it no longer seems to have nowhere left to go. So close to the roots.