One mild afternoon in early November, H and I took a walk in the woods near our place. We were recovering from bouts with the flu, and needed to get some fresh air. The sky was that peculiarly brilliant blue of autumn, which while lacking the glare and white hot heat of summer, possesses extraordinary clarity. The air was sparkling fresh, it was like drinking eau de vie or a very crisp, green cider.
The thing about autumn is the first part is such a riot of glory: all those trees that look like they're on fire. The middle part, when the windstorms rise to buffet the leaves off the trees, has a quiet beauty all its own: this is when the trees reveal their bones, which are like tracery against the sky, or a particularly robust filigree of twig, branch, bark and trunk. Towards winter, their bare outlines against grey skies are even sparer. And it is then that you long for spring.
The image below reminds me of Robert Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, though of course we don't have snow yet.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
The only other sound's the sweep / Of easy wind and downy flake
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
2 comments:
Papa once shared to me the last line:
"But there are miles to go before I sleep."
Can't wait for spring. :)
Me too, cousin. Me too :-)
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