Wednesday, October 31, 2012
A more enlightened mind might see in autumnal movements, winter's equivalent to summer's spring. I for example can surprise myself, I can think of Forsythia and Quince, and for some reason I can tell you that round here peak bloom for Forsythia in the year 2009 was March 28th. And this year, peak bloom for Forsythia was March 15th, or one hundred and thirty four days from now. But from Fall months, I take no comfort or joy with me into the future, other than a monotonous conviction that as a creature I was originally designed to hibernate and have become misplaced by a careless associate up there in the Cosmic Fulfillment Center. Not for me does the expression "Yippee Skiing" enter consciousness, except as contemptuous dismissal of a branch in the Human tree that if I were polite I'd describe as an "unfortunate error." Call me a Hippo if you wish to.
Tonight, a clear sky, a breeze from the western plains will bring a first breath of cold, which will kill the remaining Roma Tomato. This bold plant volunteered from compost, it saw stalks of Egyptian Wheat, might even have smelled the Nile, and I would like to think this sensation was sufficient inspiration to take a chance at life, bloom along with Cucumber, feed the Bumble Bees, excite the younger Hummingbirds, produce magnificent fruits, without even a second thought. Which is something I can understand, but tonight's cold will also kill Morning Glory. By tomorrow around eight as the sun breaches its eastern tree line, Morning Glory will be there on her fence, and she'll appear translucent, and I'll think she has a chance. Then by evening, her tropical heart will be gone, and I'll ask what tyranny in us put her through this. But at least she'll not have to attempt comprehending 'fall back' of the hour this coming weekend.