Another trip through the warmth.
Another season of growth and wonder.
Another graceful, spiraling dance ending in forgotten stillness.
Am I writing about the lifespan of a leaf?
I am reaching for new things to say about autumn but it all feels like cliche.
Life, death, the onslaught of cold, the encroachment of darkness, the crispness in the air, the last brilliant flames of foliage — you don’t need me to lead you through the drill.
My grandpa has more nuance to offer on the subject than I do.
Look at the shading on his leaf, and the pattern it traces through the air. Another instance where a picture is worth a thousand words.
Look also at the equinoctial temperature that complicated year — a high of 78, and a quite temperate low of 60. Short-sleeve weather, not flannel.
Another reminder that life is not as clear-cut as we sometimes make it, and that the calendar doesn’t really get the final say. When does summer really end and fall begin? How about youth and middle age? Middle age and old?
(David Crosby, who was in some position to know, once suggested that what people thought of as “the Sixties” actually lasted from 1965 to 1975. I’m not sure what Crosby was doing in September 1972, but I bet it was potent.)
A more complicated subject than it seems, autumn … and I am coming up blank trying to find interesting things to say about its arrival.
I look forward to inhaling its essence for the next couple of months, anyway.