Photo: jans canon (flickr)
Emily Bronte wrote a short poem about this time of year.
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
Although I admire Emily’s optimism, somehow I don’t think she could have been a gardener. Gardeners, I think, while welcoming the changing seasons are always looking ahead to next year’s roses. That is why, I believe that the author of another poem about autumn sounds as if he may have been a gardener. Politzer wrote:
Whirling leaves, golden and brown
Twisting and turning
Driving wind, gusty and strong
Whistling and sighing
Scudding clouds, grey leaden sky
Laughing and playing
Roaming birds, gathered for flight
Chirping and preening
Seeking sun light.
Drooping rose, scattered to earth,
Dying and fading
Waiting new birth.
As we walk around our gardens hoping to find that last rose of summer, we are already dreaming of roses yet to come.