Falling Petals

My neighbor Jackie stopped in to drop off copies of The New Yorker and exclaimed how beautiful the yellow leaves were on the maple tree in my backyard. I downplayed it and said that she should have been here a week ago when all the trees were vibrant with fall colors. Then I turned and saw the yellow filling up the entire window and I was stunned. Knowing how much was gone, I no longer saw what was still here.

When leaves drop in autumn, I am sad for the loss of all the life that has buzzed, flown, grown, and run through the woods. Colors become muted, trees go bare, and a chill clings to the air. I turn away from the windows thinking that life has ended outside and there is nothing more to see. Yet when the leaves are gone, I will be able see deer moving down by the creek, a barred owl sitting on a branch, feel the contours of the land, and watch sunset’s rays moving through the bare trees.

Wang Wei writes of this dying of beauty in his poem, “Magnolia Basin,” of hibiscus blooming in a remote mountain where no one sees them: “One by one flowers open, then fall.”

I do not like dying. I’ve become used to the glory of summer and do not want it to end. The coming of winter is a time of transition, when I learn to let go of what has been and start to notice what is coming.