Crimson flames tied through my earsMaple leaves are in florescent flames of tiger and pineapple. Oaks in spice, sangria and scarlet. If you disagree with these choices, select your own at the color thesaurus. “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” exclaimed Anne of Green Gables. We concur, heartily.
Rollin’ high and mighty traps
Pounced with fire on flaming roads
Using ideas as my maps
“We’ll meet on edges, soon,” said I
Proud ’neath heated brow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I’m younger than that now
|roadside maple in Autumn|
Photo by J. Harrington
The maples in front of the house have, in the past day or two, turned chartreuse and tangerine. The maple on the ridge behind the house is brilliant crimson. Over the next week or two, much of this beauty and vibrancy will be gone. Isn't it important to enjoy what we have while it's here?
FallFall, falling, fallen. That’s the way the season Changes its tense in the long-haired maples That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition With the final remaining cardinals) and then Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground. At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees In a season of odd, dusky congruences—a scarlet tanager And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance, A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything Changes and moves in the split second between summer’s Sprawling past and winter’s hard revision, one moment Pulling out of the station according to schedule, Another moment arriving on the next platform. It Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away From their branches and gather slowly at our feet, Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving Around us even as its colorful weather moves us, Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets. And every year there is a brief, startling moment When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air: It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies; It is the changing light of fall falling on us.