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09/19/10 - (1)
Holding Autumn in My Hand
The sky is crowded, miles wide, with striated whitish-gray clouds. Robin's-egg-blue-hued lagoons, like terraqueous land masses, Break through their nebulous layers, Reflecting, on the lake's smooth surface, a mosaic of diaphanous serenity. Imminence pervades this brisk northern-Wisconsin Sunday noon.
Barely an atom amidst this vast panoramascape, I know, in my bones, change, transition, mutation, alchemy, Just as do all animate creations realize, in their chemistry, That the season is ripe for being guided to destiny's precipice, From which fall will leap into winter's silent abyss and sleep peacefully.
In weathered shoes, jeans, flannel shirt, fleece jacket, Having finished buffet breakfast at Sharon's Lakeview Cafe, I walk south, down Lake Avenue, in the direction of my cabin, Past the hibernating Dairy Queen, Turn east, onto Waterfront Drive, at the dormant red-log auditorium,
Then step across the empty street and stand beneath a lone maple tree, Conspicuous for its leaves' exquisite metamorphosis. Jumping at least six inches off the ground, I'm barely able to reach the tip of the lowest-hanging branch, Which I pull down far enough to rip away a thick twig.
Counting its eleven leaves, depending from reddish stems — Palettes loaded with scarlet, gold, and green fantasies — I sense I'm holding autumn between my thumb and first two fingers, As if this twig were the pen I use to transmute the universe into verse, Rhyme its timeless cadences with nature's divine harmony.
09/19/10 - (1)
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