Autumn the enchantress

 

Apple picking with Sophia and her classmates in Watkins Glen on Wednesday

  "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core.."
                         Ode to Autumn, by John Keats


Some 22 years back, under the weak rotation of the classroom ceiling fan, 43 sweaty, pleated uniform-wearing 16-year old girls were reciting with lackluster those same lines above, in a feeble attempt to commit to memory Keats’ poem. I was amongst them. It would be doubtful that any one of us had a real sense of the rich visions in the poet’s mind but we did understand that if we didn’t memorize the poem verbatim, then our parents' rich visions of us moving to bigger and greater things would evaporate. So, we droned on, without feeling any love for the poem, in fact, just hoping that reading the Cliff notes would suffice for the exams.

Clearly, reading Keats' prolific piece at the time was like serving out top-rate caviar to a person only wanting a Taco Bell burrito and hence, couldn't be fully appreciated. Tropical Singapore is all about heady heat and oppressive humidity without the golden foliage nor abundant fruit; without the transition from one season to another and without the feeling of joy each season brings. Plus, when poetry needs to be learnt because it hinges on getting the right grade to move on to better things, the message is blindsided and we don’t give the poet the chance to convey his full message to us.

Little did I know that one day I would better understand what Keats had so eloquently put on paper and that I would come to love the same Autumn that he'd written about some 91 years ago.

I don't just love Autumn. I'm in love with Autumn! Autumn turns me into a mushy, happy wimp when she lavishes iridescent hues of gold and auburn before my eyes. It is easy to love her. She makes the nights bearable after about 3-months worth of muggy summer nights batting off gnats; she lines the leaves on the trees and bushes with gold and then when you aren’t paying any attention, she magically transforms the trees the way Rumpelstilktskin had spun the common stacks of hay into golden threads. And if glistening gold isn’t your colour, she knows she’ll have your heads in a spin at the sight of deep auburn trees aflame or cloaked in saffron like the Hindu swamis.

Autumn’s leafy subjects are vain little attention seekers. They mesmerize when they pull away from the branches as they dive and dance to the ground, twinkling and captivating in the sunlight. I could sit and watch, hours on end, the pumpkin-coloured leaves rushing up towards the trail left behind by cars driving by. Even as I struggle to rake the fallen leaves as a result of Autumn’s presence, I don’t get mad at her the way I curse under my breath when I’m shoveling soggy and heavy snow after a storm. Autumn is like the charismatic person that everyone wants to be around, and any apparent flaws are immediately brushed aside, forgiven and attributed to being part of her/his quirky charm.

She comes back each year with the same bag of tricks but even when I’ve seen it all, I’m still gleefully clapping my hands after every known performance and asking for more. I’m that much of a sucker because I know that when all that magic is gone -- and mind you, she only grants us a short performance -- she’ll take with her the ripe and heavy fruits, the gaudy coloured leaves, the crisp fragrance of pine in the air and she’ll leave us with little more than the grave and empty trees, standing silent and tall to brave the next visitor.

Do these colours make your heart sing the way they make mine?