Category: Autumn Anthems

If you were a shaman,
the old crow told me,
you would know what
this calligraphy means
the moment that you
set eyes on it.

My own interpretation,
he went on, is that the
ancient legend is true
that says elves collect
materials this time of year
for decorating the Festival
drums. You might have
heard that story before.

If you see a scattering
of pine needles on the
sawn trunk of a tree, noting
the colors and textures,
and think of all the stories
this one small patch
of ground might hold,
you are gifted and lucky.

That’s what the old crow
told me.

I don’t know her name or species.
She doesn’t know mine either.
Neither of us cares.
She just stands there—sun, rain
sleet, snow—at the edge of the trail
that stage coaches traveled, all the way,
they tell me, from New York to Chicago
nearly two hundred years ago. She,
whom I address as “Mother Maple,”
has been there, on the east edge
of the south hill where she can catch
the sunrise, a long time, too.
I have known her for over three decades now,
and count it as a privilege held in high regard.
I remember an autumn when hundreds
of migrating starlings perched for a while
in her boughs and in the boughs of all
her neighbors, singing until you thought
the earth itself would rise up at the sound.
Today, her limbs are nearly bare.
Only slim garlands of her last red leaves
remain and a lone leaf here and there.
I nod to her, an appreciative salute,
as I turn toward my door, silently
wishing her sweet dreams, and promising
to check in with her from time to time,
no matter what winter brings.

By the end of the week, cold will set in.
These are the last warm days and much
remains to be done. Nevertheless,
I can’t resist the call of the woods.
I haven’t been to the pine grove in weeks,
and although the maples have shed their leaves,
the oaks remain. I can’t resist. I don’t even try.
Once I am there, my boots brushing through
heaps of leaves, I find myself back in childhood days,
when all along the bay, the men would make
great piles of fallen leaves on the sand at the waters edge.
And we children would dive atop them shrieking,
expecting them to be soft as pillows,
but of course they never were.
And when the men had finished their raking,
they set fire to hills of leaves, and the smoke
from the fires would billow and rise, riding
the south wind out to where the water met the sky.
At my feet, leathery oak leaves cover the ground,
tucking themselves around a fallen log, a young pine
adorned with fallen needles. I notice I am wearing
a soft smile, despite that slight air of sadness
that autumn often brings. I remember the fragrance
of burning leaves and inhale the scent of these woods.
I listen to the whispers of the leaves beneath my feet,
a once-a-year song. And in my heart, there is peace.

The days of light give way now
to the lengthening nights. At noon
the warmth of the sun yields
to gusts of cold wind. My eyes travel
up the trunks of two trees, one bright,
one lost in shadow. Between them,
the red leaves of a distant oak dance
in the autumn-blue sky.
My heart drinks in all of it, playing
its beat-pause, beat-pause rhythm.
As I turn to walk down the path
that will climb up the next hill,
my breath flows in, then out.
It’s all one tender song—the up and down,
the in and out, the shadow and the light,
each in perfect balance with the other.
At dusk, I watch a nearly full moon
rise in a clear dark sky as a lone cricket’s
song rides the evening’s silence.

A light rain, almost mist-like,
splattered the vacant side road that runs
from the highway into town, subduing
what remained of autumn’s colors.
The day was warm for November
and mild, and I breathed its fragrant air
through the window I had rolled down
a bit despite the rain. Daydreams
floated past as I drove, suddenly
interrupted by a quick movement
in the fallen leaves that lined the road.
Pheasants! I hadn’t seen one in years.
Ring-necks! The sight of their plumage
sent me back to the time when I
was four and my dad, a hunter,
carefully unrolled layers of newspaper,
revealing his bounty before my eyes
right there on the kitchen’s linoleum floor.
The iridescence of their colors
stunned me and mixed with the scent
of wet feathers and blood.
My dad let me touch me them.
Such magnificent birds!
Today, two pheasants touched me.

Suddenly, the bodies of the trees
are bare again, their wondrous limbs
etching poems against the sky.
I stop and stare as if I’d never seen
them before, awestruck once more
by the realization that these towering
beings are as alive as I am,
cycling through the same seasons,
knowing the same ebb and flow
of darkness and light,
of activity and rest.
I reach out to touch the smooth
cool bark of a sycamore,
and although its consciousness
is far beyond my knowing,
I feel a connection and something
deep within me breathes, “Alive.
Yes, alive.”

Here and there, in protected places,
handfuls of golden leaves still wave
from the tops of the maples. But
for the most part, the branches
are bare, ready for their winter naps.
Except, of course, for the oaks,
the magnificent ones, who only now
put on their amber autumn color.
Wearing their glowing crowns
they reign now, trumpeting the trees’
last song, proclaiming the judgment:
Well and beautifully done.

If you keep faith and follow
the whisperings of your heart,
‘though the day be dark
and swept with rain, a moment
will come when the skies
will open and the Yes pour down
its light.