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From Winamop.com
An Autumn Walk
by Fred Miller
Our reliable mantel clock ticks away through the early morning hours,
reminding me I am alone. A week ago, the village priest, in solemn
tones, presided over your last rites as we said our final goodbyes.
The womenfolk of the village have come and gone with carefully
chosen words, cakes, and casseroles. All is still except for Sam,
his tail in motion as I scratch his floppy ears.
In a pensive moment, I resolve to take a walk in the early autumn air,
my red checkered shirt and my deerstalker protecting me from the
morning chill. Sam bounces out the door toward a cerulean sky that
oversees what appears to be a bountiful harvest. The landscape,
touched by nature’s brush, is painted in pale hues.
For some reason, a tide of foibles I foisted on you rushes into my mind.
For a moment my eyesight is impaired. Yet, I also recall a wrinkled
nose, a dimpled grin, and how carefully you protected
our treasured relationship by forgiving missteps I so often made.
My pace hastens. Along the way a jaunty hare leaps across
our path and startles me. I pause to wonder about the nature of his hurry,
but Sam does not hesitate and abandons me for a merry chase. No matter.
I’m confident no harm will come to this wily little creature. Without
my knowledge, a host of beggar’s lice have quietly kissed my trousers
and climbed aboard for a ride.
In silence, my memories conjure up your soft voice and I
pause to gaze around though I know you cannot be there.
Ahead, across the savannah, I spot fingers of morning mist lacing
through blushing maples and caressing meadow sage before dis-
appearing before my eyes as if this brief performance was long ago
fated to be.
Along the bank of a stream that crosses our farm, I recall lush days
when the three of us lingered to watch tadpoles in playful chase,
and butterflies that filled our eyes with wonder before racing into
the shadows.
I remember now that the widow Brown has issued a dinner invitation
for this evening. I’d prefer no company now other than Sam, yet
I’m wondering how to decline her offer without offending her. So
many memories return, times when your steadfast love encircled
me like a warm quilt. And nuances of our moments together you so
carefully crafted into golden memories.
Across the horizon, a collective kaleidoscope of beauty looms: tapestries
of russets and ambers, burnt sienna, and broomstick hues that overshadow
tiny spires of chimney smoke rising from the village, reminders of cozy fires
where folks will soon gather for morning exchanges before the day’s work begins.
A deep earthy smell fills my lungs as I make my way toward parched fields
where desiccated sunflowers weep before an unknown god, one whom they
must believe robbed them of vitality and luster. Above, I hear feisty squirrels
chirp and tussle for possession of acorns, the last of the season no doubt. I
muse over whether they will store them for the coming winter or consume
them now.
Taking a breath, I linger here and marvel over the scene surrounding me.
And I recall how your poetry captured what I could never put into words.
And how you played with my affections with wry couplets you penned in
my honor.
Below I follow a path of a delicate insect on wing spiraling down, no doubt
in the throes of its final flight before succumbing to eternal rest. Surely this
creature knows its hallowed mission has been fulfilled and somewhere nearby
its prodigy lies snug in a nook awaiting the warmth and renewal of spring.
The screech of a hawk causes me to pause as my eyes follow its
path, no doubt mourning the passing of summer’s rich store of
plenty as his eyes focus on any movement below. I wonder if he is aware
of what seasonal changes can do to a soul. Perhaps. Like him, I decide to
accept each day as it comes and to follow simple routines I can recall.
Sam, none the worse from his fruitless journey, returns to my side, his coat full
of thistle and straw. Ahead I see steam rising behind a tractor from fresh cut
hay and I instinctively want to sneeze.
Across the meadow, a procession of bawling cows is making its way to a
barn and needed relief. And in the distance, I can hear the smithy’s hammer
pounding on an anvil in perfect rhythms that speak to me in singular ways.
Somewhere near his shop, there is a mule making circles around a
contraption squeezing cane. The liquid trickles down into a pan over a
fire nearby where hot bubbling molasses is being made, its sweet aroma
easing down the lanes of the village.
Yet little I hear or see can take my mind’s eye from your image, your smile,
or your voice, now absent, but reminders that echo the emptiness of winter’s
face that is soon to appear and offer no reassurance of the renewal we so
faithfully treasure. My head fills with images of meadowlarks and their
cheerful song and crickets, new to the world, providing evening vespers for
all of nature to behold and offering a solemn promise of new life to come.
I gaze at plump gourds and pumpkins askew in rows and smile knowing that
jack-o-lanterns will soon stir antsy kids in costume to race about in hasty pursuit
of tasty treats. And I suspect, with a harvest moon to provide a soft luster over the
autumn scene below.
At the door, I find a pie on the threshold, Sam’s nose and tail on high alert.
And a note from the widow Brown allowing me a bye if I wish to decline
her kind invitation for dinner.
Before a crackling fire, I sit in my rocker keeping time with the clock on the
mantel and my hand on Sam’s soft head. I smile as I realize changes I’ve
seen are a reminder of steadfast and expected turns in life and that soon my
heart will be filled with grand dreams of our times together and the goodness
you so skillfully sketched with joy across my heart.
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