Sometimes driving in to work can be heartbreakingly breathtaking this time of year. A tree has shed its red leaves onto the highway, another is just starting to turn. Autumn, and its accompanying adjective, autumnal, carry weight, invoking age, splendor, a finality before the hush of winter snowfall. I have said this already, in another post.
This was one of the songs I listened to, “Morning Celebration” by Karunesh:
As always, here is Keats “To Autumn” read by Ben Wishaw.
And the text:
For me, Autumn means I let go of my manuscript, write words, not paragraphs, let email overtake my mornings. The practice of the summer has fled. My students start workshop in one class, and in another, we discuss Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story, “The Yellow Wallpaper.”
There is an abundance of readings and performances as the season gears up, and these days, the bus is packed.
I subsist some days on granola bars and coffee, before coming home an hour, now two, before bedtime. The cats are hungry, as am I, for dinner.
My dinner is leftovers, if I planned ahead, or grilled cheese. Soon
will come my ambition to roast squash, make soup. Autumn dreams of a kind.