What's the story?

Winter whites will soon enough dominate our landscape, replacing the greens of Spring and Summer. Before that happens though, Autumn gets her turn to make leaves into a kaleidoscope of reds and bronzes and coppers and golds. Do you ever think about the fact possibility that we might live in a world that we didn't experience as beautiful? What if leaves just turned to dust or ashes, then crumbled and dusted the ground? Would we see that transformation as  beautiful as what we have? I doubt it.

Autumn oaks in bronzes and browns

Photo by J. Harrington

Nature doesn't have to show us as much beauty as she does. Each of us, all of us could have been made in such a way that we couldn't recognize beauty as we saw or heard or smelled or touched or tasted it. Instead, we have Autumn as apple season. Apples bring an array of reds, a crisp crunch at a bite, sweet or tart tastes in the juices. Apple blossom time in Spring fills our eyes with flowers and our noses with their scent. Those flowery aromas magically transform into the Autumn smells of cider and apple pies baking. Think about all this the next time someone like me points out how senseless it is to destructively exploit our only world and contaminate it with oil spills and mining pollution. If you never have, read at least the beginning of Rachel Carson's Silent Spring. Toward the end of the first chapter, A Fable for Tomorrow, you will find these words:

No witchcraft, no enemy action had silenced the rebirth of new life in this stricken world. The people had done it themselves.

scarlet and maroon leaves framed by pine

Photo by J. Harrington

That is not the way I'd like my version of our story to end. What about you? Isn't the time is past when we could claim we didn't know any better or couldn't do any better. Beauty, or the beasts we've created for ourselves -- our choice becomes our story, our legacy.

What to Eat, What to Drink, and What to Leave for Poison

By Camille T. Dungy

I.   

Only now, in spring, can the place be named:   

tulip poplar, daffodil, crab apple,   

dogwood, budding pink-green, white-green, yellow   

on my knowing.   All winter I was lost.   

Fall, I found myself here, with no texture   

my fingers know.   Then, worse, the white longing   

that downed us deep three months.   No flower heat.   

That was winter.   But now, in spring, the buds   

flock our trees.   Ten million exquisite buds,   

tiny and loud, flaring their petalled wings,   

bellowing from ashen branches vibrant   

keys, the chords of spring’s triumph: fisted heart,   

dogwood; grail, poplar; wine spray, crab apple.   

The song is drink, is color.   Come.   Now.   Taste.

II.   

The song is drink, is color.   Come now, taste   

what the world has to offer.   When you eat   

you will know that music comes in guises—   

bold of crepe myrtle, sweet of daffodil—   

beyond sound, guises they never told you   

could be true.   And they aren’t.   Except they are   

so real now, this spring, you know them, taste them.   

Green as kale, the songs of spring, bright as wine,   

the music.   Faces of this season grin   

with clobbering wantonness—see the smiles   

open on each branch?—until you, too, smile.   

Wide carnival of color, carnival   

of scent.   We’re all lurching down streets, drunk now   

from the poplar’s grail.   Wine spray: crab apple.

III.   

From the poplar’s grail, wine spray.   Crab apple   

brightens jealously to compete.   But by   

the crab apple’s deep stain, the tulip tree   

learns modesty.   Only blush, poplar learns,   

lightly.   Never burn such a dark-hued fire   

to the core.   Tulip poplar wants herself   

light under leaf, never, like crab apple,   

heavy under tart fruit.   Never laden.   

So the poplar pours just a hint of wine   

in her cup, while the crab apple, wild one,   

acts as if her body were a fountain.   

She would pour wine onto you, just let her.   

Shameless, she plants herself, and delivers,   

down anyone’s street, bright invitations.

IV.   

Down anyone’s street-bright invitations.   

Suck ‘em.   Swallow ‘em.   Eat them whole.   That’s right,   

be greedy about it.   The brightness calls   

and you follow because you want to taste,   

because you want to be welcomed inside   

the code of that color: red for thirst; green   

for hunger; pink, a kiss; and white, stain me   

now.   Soil me with touching.   Is that right?   

No?   That’s not, you say, what you meant.   Not what   

you meant at all?   Pardon.   Excuse me, please.   

Your hand was reaching, tugging at this shirt   

of flowers and I thought, I guess I thought   

you were hungry for something beautiful.   

Come now.   The brightness here might fill you up.

V.   

Come.   Now the brightness here might fill you up,   

but tomorrow?   Who can know what the next   

day will bring.   It is like that, here, in spring.   

Four days ago, the dogwood was a fist   

in protest.   Now look.   Even she unfurls   

to the pleasure of the season.   Don’t be   

ashamed of yourself.   Don’t be.    This happens   

to us all.   We have thrown back the blanket.   

We’re naked and we’ve grown to love ourselves.   

I tell you, do not be ashamed.   Who is   

more wanton than the dancing crepe myrtle?   

Is she ashamed?   Why, even the dogwood,   

that righteous tree of God’s, is full of lust   

exploding into brightness every spring.

VI.   

Exploding into brightness every spring,   

I draw you close.   I wonder, do you know   

how long I’ve wanted to be here?   Each year   

you grasp me, lift me, carry me inside.   

Glee is the body of the daffodil   

reaching tubed fingers through the day, feeling   

her own trumpeted passion choiring air   

with hot, colored song.   This is a texture   

I love.   This is life.   And, too, you love me,   

inhale my whole being every spring.   Gone   

winter, heavy clod whose icy body   

fell into my bed.   I must leave you, but   

I’ll wait through heat, fall, freeze to hear you cry:   

Daffodils are up.   My God, what beauty!

VII.   

Daffodils are up, my God!   What beauty   

concerted down on us last night.   And if   

I sleep again, I’ll wake to a louder   

blossoming, the symphony smashing down   

hothouse walls, and into the world: music.   

Something like the birds’ return, each morning’s   

crescendo rising toward its brightest pitch,   

colors unfurling, petals alluring.   

The song, the color, the rising ecstasy   

of spring.   My God.   This beauty.   This, this   

is what I’ve hoped for.   All my life is here   

in the unnamed core—dogwood, daffodil,   

tulip poplar, crab apple, crepe myrtle—   

only now, in spring, can the place be named.

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