When orange and black rules

What is it about this time of year?  When I go outside on an early Fall morning, the smell of turning leaves, the dream-like hue of overcast sky, and crisp air brushing against my skin has me reciting 19th century poetry.  If you revisit my blog around this time last year, Dickinson, Poe, Prevert, Robert Frost and Li Po were the poets whose inspired words captured this moment for me.

As a young child, Halloween meant little more to me than the time of year when I got to play dress up outside of the house and ask strangers for candy.  Which was quite daring in itself on any ordinary day.  Just exactly what our parents tell us not to do, right?  Watching my young adult grow older, this time of year has developed profound significance for me.  

The patter of rain on a pile of yellowing leaves brings my mind to the past.  I'll reminisce about how my son once jumped with gusto into leaves or wonder when the trees lost their leaves in different cities I've lived in.  All it takes is a quiet morning alone with a steaming mug of tea and suddenly I let myself get whisked away into Christina Rossetti's Goblin Market.  

Fall wistfully transports us to times past, while we still feel the flush of summer upon our cheeks.  Not yet ready to hibernate, the afternoon sun is relished on long walks.  Every morning when our dog, Owen, and I go out, I feel thankful that the garden has survived another night without frost.  Tomatoes taste even more succulent, because I know it will be another 10 months before they taste sweet and juicy again.  

This is the time of year when orange and black rule.  Their meanings run deeper than branding a holiday season.  Black signifies the trepidation we feel in our hearts as the nights lengthen, as well as the longer, darker nights.  Orange's inspiration is the last of the season's harvest, those butternut squash and pumpkins, the ripened leaves blanketing the green grass, the lingering warmth of the sun's rays.  So, this season as I'm wearing the orange and black socks my husband bought me, I'm not merely participating in the commercialization of another holiday.  Instead, we are all honoring this moment in time, paying homage to autumn, before it passes.   

                                              Ghosts Galore card by Blackbird and Peacock

End of the Harvest

Already the leaves are turning yellow and falling from the trees.  Sadly, yesterday I raked about 5 large piles worth.  The tomatoes and other goodies in my garden are probably going to get hit by frost this weekend, so I'm going to harvest what I can on Friday.

It has been a very wet September.  A good part of the East Coast has been ravaged by hurricanes and more rain, rain, rain.  My pumpkins are still turning orange, but quite a few are ready to be turned into pumpkin pies.  I have a feeling that my flower garden will meet its' end soon, as well.  In the next few weeks, I'll have to unearth the dahlia bulbs so I can replant them next year.

I also have to figure out where to plant my tulip bulbs.  They should be planted within the next couple of weeks.  I'm looking forward to expanding my flower and vegetable gardens next year.

Wind...

Less than half an hour to midnight.  I'm listening to the wind rushing and whooshing against the trees and house outside.  Something exciting about a powerful wind raging on a dark, chilly night.  Was inspired by this quote by e.e. cummings as autumn is on the verge of leaving us, and thankfully so.  Cannot bask in spring until winter has come and gone.

A wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand. I think, I too, have known autumn too long.
e.e. cummings





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The Poetry of Fall

Days are ending sooner and already I'm finding comfort in sweaters and steaming cups of tea.  Less time is spent outdoors enjoying the sun's warm rays, now I'm resting earlier in the evening.  My dog is more often found sleeping on the edge of my bed.  Poetry moves my soul and the loud music of summer becomes more subdued.  
The leaves are in the midst of changing and suddenly I'm nostalgic like Jacques Prevert when he wrote Barbara.  His poetry wistfully creating vignettes of the sadness inherent in war and love, ruminating on the past.  There's a sweet sorrow one participates in as candles are lit and shadows lengthen.  We consider longer, nurture our moodiness, become quiet.
Whereas I recite the early poetry of Yeats in the summer, the poems of his later years are relished.  Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven and Annabel Lee are annual autumnal favorites around the world and Robert Frost finds new followers.  Dickinson's sunnier poems are disregarded, seeming garish compared to her thoughtful ruminations on mortality.  And Li Po must not be forgotten- his musings on youth and the changing seasons are enjoyed with a glass of deep red wine.
Yes, fall is here.  A loneliness pervades the air, but I am not alone as I have poetry to warm my soul.