Autumn Finally Came

Autumn finally came, right on time, slowly, gradually, unnoticed, as it does each year, sneaking up on us, the nights cool after hot days, the days cooling slowly, too, unnoticed, mornings light subdued as we rise and drive to work, our livelihood, all of us up and out, our days beginning. Now, the leaves are turning, a few at first, green to yellow or red or brown, a single leaf leading, the others following, in turn, and falling, one or two, a few, a few more, till on a Saturday afternoon, mid-month, I dig out the rake buried for the summer in the garage, the air now noticeably cool, chilly almost, a sweatshirt pulled over my head, and take myself outside, the slow process of raking leaves a relief actually, a break, outside alone, for raking leaves is a solitary job, raking alone this spot chosen, starting here, a rake dragged, pulled toward my feet, raised and pulled again slowly, no rush in raking leaves, leaves brought forward into a pile forming.

This is the season to be alone, Autumn is, alone, raking leaves, contemplating a life slowed down, this Saturday afternoon, our lives so rushed, so hectic, so full, time alone to contemplate where we are, where we’ve come from, how we arrived, traveling our memories back to childhood, to simpler times, times of leaves pressed between waxed paper, ironed flat and hung around the classroom, taped to windows, our young version of stained glass,  windows of wonder; of leaves piled high, our fathers slowly raking, pulling leaves to their own feet, or pausing, standing propped against a rake at rest, looking off, contemplating, perhaps, as I do now; of those leaves piled high, mounds of leaves calling to us to run, to jump, to launch ourselves into piles of leaves raked up, piled high, cushioning us, our voices shrill in the autumn air; of football games on a Saturday afternoon, the warmth of Autumn sunshine turning cold by game’s end, hot chocolate, apple cider poured to warm us again, returning home.

Alone, we pull the leaves toward us now to pile at our feet, red and gold and brown, or prop ourselves on rakes holding us up, staring off at life slowed down, contemplating, remembering, the leaves of memory sustaining us for the approaching winter, reminding us of where we came from, reminding us of who we are, sustaining us and keeping us alive.

October Peeks Around the Last Days of September

October peeks around the last days of September, shyly,

her breath, crisp and chilled, exhaled, cooling down the days

gone shorter, daylight squeezed between the darkness encroaching;

and autumn dons his overcoat of colors muted,

the greens of summer, brilliant against an azure sky,

now turning red and rust and brown, or golden hues,

the rustle of his coat, pulled tight around

against the cold, soft, as dry leaves scratching

the pavement, tumbling in October’s breath, crisp and cool.

This Cold Morning

The coffee warms me this cold

morning, at the lake, up early

before the boaters take over, the roar

of motors driving in the fishermen

contemplating a red and white bobber

tossed into the still water, a ripple

created, the lake’s only motion

breaking the morning calm, this cold

morning I share with them, sitting

here, dock-side, coffee-warmed, contemplating

the rising mist, veiled transparency

obscuring land’s end and the lake beyond;

and the eerie cry of a loon, echoing, calling out,

notes my intrusion and calls me back

from my own obscurity to here,

to now, to this cold morning, up early

before nature gives ways to humanity –

man’s dominion – silent, shutting us out

but through glimpses seen, like this,

up early, this cold morning shared.

A Maine Winter in the Woods of Monson

 

Lake Hebron is quiet now, winter approaching, the summer folk gone and the few hearty souls that stay year round settling in, content themselves in the quiet of the lake, firewood stacked, sweaters cleaned, foundations banked to ward off the cold of a Maine winter in the woods of Monson. Fewer trucks now rumble the hill of the camp road, Pleasant Street, now named and numbered, modern convenience in a rustic time and place, and the loons, the few lingering yet to leave, reluctant themselves, perhaps, as the summer folk lingered, delaying leaving themselves, wishing for “one more day, one more day,” the loons remaining still cry out and echo across the lake, their haunting cries unheard but by those few who stay as the temperatures dip and ice forms along the shore where the water joins the land. The fish there, down below, slow themselves, content in the winter approaching, prepare themselves now for the winter freeze, ice sealing off the lake above, the winter light below dark and black, long starless sky above them. And in the air wood smoke, acrid and sharp, rises in gray rivulets from the unsealed chimneys that remain, heat rising upward and outward to warm cold rooms, rooms dark in early morning rising, warm against the cold of an autumn night, lingering cold turned warm by crackling wood and snapping iron heating, expanding, warmth expanding to take us in, those few staying behind, winter approaching, the summer folk gone, settling in, content in the quiet of Hebron, a Maine winter in the woods of Monson.