‘Tis a Season

The morns are meeker than they were —

The nuts are getting brown — 

The berry’s cheek is plumper — 

The Rose is out of town. 

The Maple wears a gayer scarf — 

The field a scarlet gown —

Lest I should be old fashioned 

I’ll put a trinket on. 

                                       Emily Dickinson

At a quarter past six this morning I pull up the shades on the bedroom windows–five windows on three walls, almost a panorama. We’re still on Daylight Saving Time, so it’s dark. The glow from the streetlights outlines the shapes of trees and houses. I drink coffee, watch the news, list to-dos, and wonder if the season is eluding me again. At some point the sun rises, and I don’t notice.

Emily Dickinson didn’t use titles on her poems, so they’re identified either by the first line, or number, or by a title assigned by an editor. The poem above is often listed as “Autumn.” I like poems about seasons, autumn especially. The fall has been different this year because of so many days of above-normal temperatures (probably, sadly, “new-normal” temperatures). The light has behaved as expected, but the nuts and berries and leaves have been a little late to the party.

 The cultural signifiers have appeared bang on time. Bright bags of candy at the market, pumpkins on stoops, pumpkin spice in coffee, ghosties hanging from tree branches, ghoulies and witches and bats everywhere, along with an occasional blow-up Tyrannosaurus Rex, apple cider donuts, and Oktoberfests.

Dickinson spent her life almost entirely in Amherst, Massachusetts, which is about 75 miles west of here. Close enough that fall looks similar. I use her poem this morning to pull myself into the present. How does the view from my bedroom stack up against her images?

Weak light: check. Nuts: yes, everywhere, on the grass, on the patio bricks, on the back steps. Never am I so happy to see squirrels about as at this time of year.  A carpet of acorns is beautiful, but bumpy and bothersome, even in the most sensible of shoes. Go, squirrels. Gather those nuts! Plump berries: check. The cherry tree is packed with fruit. The cherries look deceptively light, like tiny  birthday balloons, but the branches bearing them droop and lean. Roses: check. It was just a few days ago that the rosebush at the back door still had a couple of blooms. This morning they’re gone. All that’s left are a couple of petals in the mulch. I hadn’t noticed. Maple and field: check-minus. The leaves are mostly on the trees, and still mostly green, but going gold and red on the edges.

So many leaves on the trees. Also so many leaves on the grass and on the driveway. The wind  carves lines in the piles, making fantastical maps. There’s a lake, mountains, palace, and maybe a dragon or two. I think about Excalibur, and too many strands of hair on the comb this morning, chilly evenings, taverns and bonfires.

Dickinson finishes the poem with the narrator’s decision to harmonize with the season. Which starts with noticing. It seems like a good strategy for the day. I start hunting through my collection of trinkets for something that will fit the day…