The Death of Autumn
When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,
And will be born again,—but ah, to see
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?
Edna St. Vincent Millay From Second April 1921
Fall has always been my very favorite time of the year. A respite from the grumpy sun and always a welcome relief. The chilly nights attract me to stand in breezy open windows. I welcome the time when I pull out the down comforters and cover them with their smooth duvets. The feel of their weight on my body when I am falling asleep is soothing.
This week has seen the arrival of the Santa Ana winds. They always make me stop. They seem to be rushing around like so many busy workers.
Today, they came with a vengeance, blowing the early morning hazes away and revealing a sky so blue it took my breath away. Large fluffy clouds made appearances too, flirting with the sunshine. The palms, lined up in neat rows on either side of the street, sparkle magically as the sunlight glances off their fronds. When the massive fronds fall into my yard, they seem sturdy and rough. But attached to their trunk, they seem so delicate as they bend and sway with the rhythm of the winds. The leaves that are beginning to turn might seem less cheerful than the bright green of the springtime, but I find the stark beauty of the trees as they begin to shed their summer coats to be austere. It brings to mind the idea that no matter how decorative or pretty, that all things in life have a structure to hold them to their purpose. As the grasses turn brown and await the winter's rains, I can smell the odd dusts in the air.
The sound of strong winds in the night, rustling the tops of the trees is like a tranquilizer. During the night, the streets are quiet and I will stop to just listen. I hear them competing with the whistle of a far off train. Then they gust again and envelope the whole yard. The sounds of the leaves hitting the side of the house as they are wrenched from their tenuous last connections to their moorings.
The winds make me restless. I can smell in them a hint of far off places. As if the winds carry the essences from whence they came. I wonder, do they carry part of me to someone else? Can someone else get a whiff of my perfume? A bit of the dinner I prepared earlier? Or is it something deeper, does a gust of wind steal a gram of my soul? A thought? A dream?
I know intellectually that they are caused by the Coriollis force. Heating and cooling of the air in the atmosphere causing frontal and pressure systems. But that is so dull and lifeless. I would rather think of the winds as something less boring. The world is such an amazing place at times, that to explain it scientifically becomes much less interesting. Perhaps we should allow our imagination to take flight, and be carried to someone else on a breeze.
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,
And will be born again,—but ah, to see
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?
Edna St. Vincent Millay From Second April 1921
Fall has always been my very favorite time of the year. A respite from the grumpy sun and always a welcome relief. The chilly nights attract me to stand in breezy open windows. I welcome the time when I pull out the down comforters and cover them with their smooth duvets. The feel of their weight on my body when I am falling asleep is soothing.
This week has seen the arrival of the Santa Ana winds. They always make me stop. They seem to be rushing around like so many busy workers.
Today, they came with a vengeance, blowing the early morning hazes away and revealing a sky so blue it took my breath away. Large fluffy clouds made appearances too, flirting with the sunshine. The palms, lined up in neat rows on either side of the street, sparkle magically as the sunlight glances off their fronds. When the massive fronds fall into my yard, they seem sturdy and rough. But attached to their trunk, they seem so delicate as they bend and sway with the rhythm of the winds. The leaves that are beginning to turn might seem less cheerful than the bright green of the springtime, but I find the stark beauty of the trees as they begin to shed their summer coats to be austere. It brings to mind the idea that no matter how decorative or pretty, that all things in life have a structure to hold them to their purpose. As the grasses turn brown and await the winter's rains, I can smell the odd dusts in the air.
The sound of strong winds in the night, rustling the tops of the trees is like a tranquilizer. During the night, the streets are quiet and I will stop to just listen. I hear them competing with the whistle of a far off train. Then they gust again and envelope the whole yard. The sounds of the leaves hitting the side of the house as they are wrenched from their tenuous last connections to their moorings.
The winds make me restless. I can smell in them a hint of far off places. As if the winds carry the essences from whence they came. I wonder, do they carry part of me to someone else? Can someone else get a whiff of my perfume? A bit of the dinner I prepared earlier? Or is it something deeper, does a gust of wind steal a gram of my soul? A thought? A dream?
I know intellectually that they are caused by the Coriollis force. Heating and cooling of the air in the atmosphere causing frontal and pressure systems. But that is so dull and lifeless. I would rather think of the winds as something less boring. The world is such an amazing place at times, that to explain it scientifically becomes much less interesting. Perhaps we should allow our imagination to take flight, and be carried to someone else on a breeze.
posted by Dawn at 11:09 PM
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