Six weeks into fall,
so says the calendar, and at last I’m in the mind of autumn. The delay has to
do with our weather that doesn’t behave. Blame it on those 90 degree days of September and
October. Our elongated summer that is slow to start won’t relinquish its hold.
It has also to do with the coral tree outside our window still incrementally
green with just a few leaves exhausted, going to yellow.
To get into the
mind of the season I need the chill that suggests a change of palette to rust,
burned sienna and cinnamon; pig skins in the air, migrations overhead, flannel
pajamas, russet pears, oatmeal, chestnuts of childhood and cozy fires.
A blizzard of adjectives.
Of course we
get oranged in advance of Halloween. Pumpkins show up in ice cream, soup,
cereal, pasta, bread pudding, even beer. I could die happily buried inside
Trader Joes.
Here in Los
Angeles we don’t have harvests or swollen gourds except for those trucked in.
Six years ago we went to New England to watch the spectacle of ruddy sycamores
and maple leaves dying in all their glory. From a distance they looked floral.
It was operatic. Golden groves of trees majestic in their last gasp death-bed
scene. Divas, all of them. Fall is a season of life and death.
If I were a
tree I too would be in my foliage or beyond. Some of my favorite hair has
fallen. My limbs are getting brittle. Even names carved long ago into my brain are
fast fading. I am weathered and wind-bent in my bough. Exaltations of larks no longer nest in my
branches.
Autumn is
portentous of winter’s finality. The last act, 4th quarter. But it also
carries the hope and expectation of one more go round. The curtain comes down,
the curtain goes up again. Why not? Another opening, another show.
This year the
old incontinent sky is scheduled to wet us. Umbrellas will open like black
narcissus. I want to be caught in a downpour. Drenched. Let me be puddled and
pelted. Parched earth will be heard slurping. I can feel it already in my
arthritic bones.
The planet’s
lease shall be renewed.
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