|Posted by Donna Dawson on September 2, 2009 at 3:36 PM|
I sit here staring at both my computer screen and the panoramic view out the window beyond it. I see the green of the trees and verdancy of the grass but I know that autumn is coming. There is a wan texture to each blade, as though it has stretched itself thin in one last effort to grasp onto summer. Within the jade of each leaf is a hint of other hues. Yellow but not yet yellow. Red but burrowed deep within the veins still.
The night air plays out my knowing with a nip that has driven me to the flannel sheet cupboard. A tickle in my throat whispers of the abundance of ragweed and goldenrod pollen that saturates the atmosphere during those dark hours. I waken each morning with a deeper voice and swollen lids and I know. Autumn is on its way. And I feel betrayed.
I am a spring and summer person. I love the extension of day, the soft warmth that raises the hairs on my arms, the breezes that carry sweet apple blossom and lilac. I come to life and cherish each moment knowing that it will soon enough be lost to the angry bite of winter. Knowing that autumn will sap the life from the seasons' glories and turning it into a gaudy performance of clawing winds, brazen colours and a myriad swirling parachutes.
I don't exactly dislike autumn. I dislike the potential for darkness within the heart of autumn. If the sun shines then all is fairytale like and regal and golden. But when the sun drags its feet to the southern hemisphere, I am left with a world of dull, cold, dampness that pushes into the cracks of my bones with aching persistence. And then I struggle to remember spring and summer in all their ethereal beauty.
Lights are turned on. The house is battened down for the fury that I know will stumble upon the heals of autumn. Wood is hoarded and sweaters shaken from their moth balls. Fodder for man and animal alike is stored. We are far enough from town to take the precautions. Batteries are purchased and to me it feels somewhat like an annual Armageddon. A war between all that is warm and beautiful and cold and drab.
Autumn reminds me of death but not in a morbid way. I like to think that the leaves which are stripped from their branches in wreathes of gilt and crimson are given a place in Heaven as newly greened and flowering and fragrant. Just as we fade from our great shining accomplishments and move on to our place in the eternal kingdom. It is a fanciful thought but it helps me get through the darkness until the spring can errupt again.