Yellow Meadows

The dark yellow of golden rod is covering highcountry meadows and fields and white clouds are topping the hills.  And a drop in temperature has been enough to need a jacket or light sweater in the early evening. We all know what this means:  fall is in the air.

Even though I have seen only one or two trees starting to turn red, I find myself looking at the still mostly green leaves like I would a dear friend soon to leave on a long and faraway journey.  I search the branches, hoping to imprint enough of what I see to sustain me until their return. Not that I could ever forget green. But still, I will miss them.  From the tiniest scrub to the largest oak.  Thank god for the PINE.

I am enjoying wearing a jacket (pockets!) and the crispness of the air is a pleasure.  All the same, I just wasn't quite done with summer.  Not that it matters, of course.  How ridiculous!  To not be done with a season.  The season is done with or without me.  Nature's splendid indifference.  I say splendid because I really would loathe to think we human being could have the least control of more than we already do.

But I am ridiculous in my longings from time to time and that's maybe a good thing.  Work and life, how serious they threaten to become at every turn.  "It's a life or death situation!" What a clarion cry that one is.  But isn't it always and don't we manage to laugh, sing and dance around a bit all the same?

I've been reading the Polish poet Wislawa Symborska and in one of her poems, Under a Certain Little Star, she writes "pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing now and again."

I suppose I could apologize to the fall, for asking summer to stay.