A Farewell to October
These last days of October are pallid, as if cast in half-shadows. The sun is so weak it might as well not be there.
I wonder if God has tricked us with a card-board cutout that he simply hangs in the sky for us to look at and be blinded by. On cloudy days, he yanks on the string and takes down that cold thing so that some mortal might not look closely and see that there are strings. Some men look for strings, metaphorically speaking, you know.
But I know that the Earth has shifted, that the sun has slid southward to the under-horizon. The landscape dies because of this. The trees, most likely because of their visible metamorphosis, seem the first to go. Something inside them can’t bare the cold. It seems as though, at the first stings of chill in the night air, that spirit within them–the one that pushes the life-sustaining milk through their arms and legs and out into their intricate leafy garment–seeks refuge in the roots underground. The leaves die slowly, the color of their skin changing from green to yellow to orange to brown. We can’t help but say this death is beautiful.
When the leaves do finally go brown we ignore them. Colder winds come; force themselves through the trees; and undress the leafy raiments as if in some unholy way. These leaves lie on the ground like dirty laundry, used, forever unattached to anything. Some of the leaves will be gathered and enjoyed by happy children. Most, however, will lie around in the cold of upcoming days. Soon, even the children will leave them for warmer recreations. Soon, snow from the cold heaven will fall and cover what’s left. The Earth will look clean at its death.
But now, during these last days of October, I feel the autumn wind and sense Winter in its bite. I see a few leaves attempting to cling to their life-source, trying to hold on forever, I suppose. Most leaves, though, have fallen and rustle about my feet as I walk to and from the places I visit. I kick many of them as I walk, not intentionally. Most of the time I’m stepping on layers of them. I hear them crunch as I step on them. I look down and see that all I leave is dust and strings. This makes me wonder if I unintentionally cause the death of things.
I look to the gray sky. It looks like it’s hanging. I feel the same wind that brushed against my face before and I look for strings. I curse the wind for its aggressiveness, its cold affection.
The death of summer is quickly upon us.
9:21:13 PM  | |
|
