Fall

I miss autumn. What I always love about fall is how it makes you feel sort of sad and nostalgic for no reason. Or maybe it’s that the reason is too big – death, change, endings – to really be contained, and so it feels, in small moments, like no reason. Anyway, what’s sort of funny is that this year I find that I’m nostalgic for my yearly dose of autumnal nostalgia. It’s true that the tundra is turning some lovely shades of yellowy-brown, and the light in the afternoons (when the sun manages to peek out briefly) is a stunningly beautiful golden pink. But trees, oh wow, I miss trees. Growing up in New England, fall is very dramatic. It starts and ends all of a sudden. One day the tree up the block is green, the next, it seems, it’s a fiery orange-yellow, and before you’ve had time to fully appreciate that, it’s bare. In Portland, things are slower, more gradual, less dramatic, but no less beautiful. It’s not only the trees, though. I miss apple picking and fireplaces and fresh, crisp air and pumpkins and hayrides.

Here’s a small poem I wrote last fall. I don’t know what this fall will inspire.



Fall

I like to sit
on things made of wood.
Stumps, benches, rails.

I like the way
nostalgia pulls you down
turns your eyes darker.

Pain divides itself
from not pain
more clearly
than at other times of year.

I do not seem to mind
aging
in the fall
when the trees
empathize.