The island is just beginning to flare out with fall. Trees across the bay from my house, which from a distance appear in wide swaths, have mottled into golden yellow, dark orange, with smatterings of Tibetan royal red.
This is my favorite time of year in the Northwest. Too, the attendant, gentle melancholy, which — as Joni Mitchell once noted — can be quite comforting.
Here’s one of the poems I enjoy dragging out of the back of my head when this time comes around again. Last year’s cord of wood has seasoned well through the generous summer we had on Vashon, so I’ll probably make the year’s first fire in the fireplace tomorrow night.
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.