Well, it's officially autumn, but around here it still feels more like summer than fall. The dogwoods, however, are lovely already, and the lowly sumac is once again transforming into a fall beauty, with it's blood red leaves. All the other trees are still mostly green, and I'm surprised the leaves haven't turned brown and fallen off altogether from the scorching hot, dry summer.
Autumn usually puts me in the mood for beautiful poetry. One of my favorite autumn poems is a more lighthearted look at this season of "fruitfulness."
Autumn
By Emily Dickinson
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.
Because autumn has just begun, my pale pink rose with the blush in the center is still very much "in town" and doing well, even with the hot, dry summer we've had. Most things in the garden have bitten the dust by now, but not so my rose bush, because I watered it generously mornings and evenings throughout the summer heat. I couldn't bear to let it die.
My grandfather was the gardener in our family, and he especially loved to grow roses. (And I say 'our family' because I was raised by my grandparents.) His favorite rose was a pale pink one, with the blush in the center. My grandmother told me that when she married Grandfather in 1916, he brought her a bouquet of those pale pink roses with the blush in the center, to carry as her bridal bouquet, because they reminded him of the color of her cheeks!
"He was so romantic, my dear, and stayed that way all his life," Grandma often lamented wistfully.
After we fled our war-torn country in the fall of 1947, our only possessions were the clothes on our backs. But four years later, good fortune smiled on us when we were able to immigrate to the United States, where they both soon found jobs. And only two years after that, they had the down payment for a home of their own. After having lost everything because of the war, they were so grateful that such things were possible in their wonderful new country!
The house was an older white colonial, with a picket fence and a nice sized back and side yard. Of course, the first thing Grandfather did once they were moved in was to create a beautiful garden. He grew all kinds of flowers, in every nook and cranny of that yard, and tomatoes and Hungarian peppers galore. But his pride and joy was the Heirloom rose bush with the pale pink roses sporting a blush in the center. And his garden soon became the attraction of the neighborhood, with people often stopping by to admire it.
A year after he passed away, and the house was sold, Grandma picked a bouquet of those pale pink roses and laid them on his grave lovingly, while tears trickled down her cheeks.
So, you can see why I treasure the rose bush in my yard. And once autumn gets more serious and brings some killing frosts, and my rose will be out of town for the winter, I will look forward to seeing those pale pink blooms again, next spring, when they will once again remind me of a very special love.
