Monday Morning Musings: Of Autumn & Death to Self

It is October now, and the trees have begun to transform into their autumn glory.  It is inevitable, observing the world and reading fall poetry, not to think of death as everything appears to lose color and life for the barren beauty of winter.  And as I watch the trees I cannot help but think to myself: If only we could accept our daily, weekly, yearly deaths with such exquisite grace!  If only we could bow and joyfully, humbly give up the adornments of self, our very selves, and whatever else the Lord may ask.

Can we trust that He bares our branches for His greater glory and the triumph of Spring? Can we trust You shall still consent to walk alongside us in our barren state?  O give me grace to die to myself every day, graceful and obedient as the autumn tree!

Fall Poetry: Frost + St. Vincent Millay

Autumn Chant

                       Edna St. Vincent Millay

Now the autumn shudders

  In the rose's root.

Far and wide the ladders

  Lean among the fruit.

Now the autumn clambers

  Up the trellised frame,

And the rose remembers

  The dust from which it came.

Fool's Gold

They tell me gold is precious—

Expensive and hard to obtain.

But I am not so sure—

I found abundance without gain.

It is precious in the way

Of all lovely things,

But as for rare, I cannot say,

For it pours down like the rain.

And while it's true that Autumn swirls

Its hues but once a year,

Summer's gold blooms sweet and bright,

Unalloyed and pure.

Fairer still the gold I've found,

Though quick to pass away,

Than lasting stuff, from the ground,

Less subject to decay.

autumn fool

I believe I read a book once, in which one of the characters remarked something about all young poets being fools in spring; that they couldn't help themselves but to be overwhelmed with the wonder of the season.  If that is so, I am an autumn fool, for I have been writing poetry about autumn ever since I was a child and am still entranced by this annual yet transient splendor.

That said, here are a few glimpses of the beauty I found last week while home for fall break.

Scribblings in a Notebook During Class

September rain plays percussion

On the window, tree-leaves, rooftop, sidewalk;

Within the glass, all just ignore

To doze, daydream, multitask, talk.

Would that I could be outside,

Feel the drumbeats on my head, my skin;

Let the wind blow me around

Like a lonesome leaf driven by whim.

But noisesome typing on keyboards

Drowns out tumultuous rain;

Warm and secure we stay within

That by white-walled learning we might gain.

O cold, capricious gale

Eagerly swirling autumn's hues

Beneath darkened tow'rs of clouds,

Joy and shadow to singularly fuse—

Sweep me away, wild September wind,

To sail through sombre skies,

Laughing irresponsibly

As you bite tears into my eyes.

Scribblings on a Napkin During Work

October waxes with the moon,
We shed our summer skin.
From faces and arms slides the glow,
Slips away to adorn
The fluttering fingers of the trees
In whimsical raiment of gold.
We don't see the lifeblood start to slow
As days of sunshine grow silently slim—
Only festive confetti spiraling down
To frame our footsteps
Till winter falls;
Till she scatters her chill
Over our fingers and face
And spreads white across
Our streets and skin.

Some saplings I know
And a few strong, sturdy oaks
Quiver with fear as October wanes.
Gracefully they gloried in their gold,
In burnished, fiery bronze and red;
Now softly they moan,
They sigh and they tremble
As Wind strips their sole riches away
To litter the path which lies beneath
And be trampled to dust
Or left sodden to rot
And all former beauty forgotten.
They shake in the wind,
Howl their pain,
Fearing an imminent death.

Squirrels scamper through the wreck,
Frolic 'cross swaying boughs
Seeking the seeds unclaimed by the earth
Asking promises when Spring's rains sing.
Canst thou not see,
Thou elm, maple and oak,
Thou are not like the squirrel?
Canst thou not trust
Thou art unforgot
And thy Maker knows what He does?
That Springtime will swell
With riches anew?
Hold thou to hope for fullness to come
That now in thy waiting
Thou can scarce comprehend.