The Poetry of Autumn
Autumn is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.
The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.
-”The Falling of the Leaves” by William B. Yeats
Although the calendar marks September 22 as the first day of autumn, like clockwork, every year the weather cools at the outset of October, inviting that delicious crisp nip in the air, which serves as both a scent and a tactile feeling, a signal that the world is undergoing a new phase.
I love the transition of summer to fall. Leaves begin to stray and nature’s backdrop transforms into a kaleidoscopic mélange of pumpkin oranges, forest greens, cornfield yellows, and earthy browns. Breezes waft about and sunlight gains a superlative power at sunrise and sunset, illuminating the world in hyperkinetic color. Cooler days are washed by the beauty of serene melancholy, quiet but never sullen, like a single browning leaf falling from a branch.
Painting: Claude Monet. Weeping Willow. 1919. Oil on canvas. Musée Marmottan, Paris, France. From Olga’s Gallery at abcgallery.com
