As the Days Draw In

Poems of autumn and winter

Photo by frame harirak on Unsplash

Last week's post celebrated warm bright scenes from summer; it got a lot of love, for which I thank you! And I hope you’ll stay with me while I turn to consider seasons that (whispering, now) I love even more than I love summer.

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RAINFALL IN AUTUMN


Morning’s quiet trickles into afternoon;
even the light is still, cloud-filtered. In my room
the window facing west and north is open
to cool cloud-scented air, while at the window
facing west and south, I watch
the soft splash-tap against the glass and wonder
how many drops would be enough to wear away
its dust and grime, the city-sweat of stones.
Here is water doing what it does, being itself
and being-with, reshaping futures while it sings
in Now, tings against fire-escape slats like tympani,
the smallest lightest syncopation, whispering
jazz beats into the quiet cloud-cool day.

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A HEART FOR WINTER


I feel for those who grieve when summer’s long days
pull in, who soak up zest and comfort from skies full
of light and warmth, who feel bereft when darkness lengthens
and daylight cools, leaving their hearts and aching bones
uncomforted. I share their aches but have a different heart,
one made for darkness and for winter; a whole skyful
of summer sun undoes me, endless heat and light
leave me on edge, tasting each hot breeze for smoke,
my skin parch-cracked like soil in drought. No, give me
short and cloud-gray days, long nights of rain, give me
cold that makes a blessing of my body’s furnace, give me
light and heat a roomful at a time. And in the heart of winter
give me the feast of Light in Darkness, a tiny lamp
shining at midnight in a stable window, Incarnation
drawn like a layer of cloud between us and the love of God
so we can look at it and not go blind. All praise
to summer’s bright and generous bounty, praise to springtime’s
tender glorious wakenings and the restless quiet of autumn;
I have a heart for winter, for dark and frost-bound days
that sweeten all we know of warmth and light.

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[You can hear an audio version of these poems — and some 26th Avenue traffic — using the little widget above the photograph.]

It’s easy, practically speaking, for me to love autumn and winter. I live in a temperate climate, where colder weather doesn’t actively try to kill me. I’m housed, and have indoor heat and light for the asking. My body is well-packed in its own insulation and runs warm by nature. I’m grateful for all those privileges, but they don’t explain why these two seasons — and winter especially — are dear to me. I’ve spent some cool days and long dark nights looking for ways to explain it to you.

One explanation? Rain. Seriously. The state I live in has been in a profound drought for years, and its summer wildfire season has lengthened and intensified. Late autumn and winter offer whatever hope we have of renewing the water table and the land’s resilience. When it rains here in my coastlands, it’s usually snowing further north and west; I picture the slow melt of that mountain snow-pack feeding lakes and streams and reservoirs over the spring and summer, and I smile and smile from underneath my umbrella. If this sounds like I’m simply talking about the weather, I promise you it goes deeper than that. Every time I watch rain fall and inhale the scent that rises as the earth receives it, I can feel relief and renewal and gratitude running all the way to the tips of my own lifelong roots in this soil.

Another explanation? Christmas. I don’t say that lightly. The winter holiday season is hugely complicated, socially and commercially and personally; the feast of Christmas as a Christian holy day is complicated in its own ways, not least in its acknowledgment that the gorgeous broken world we live in is dreadfully dark and cold sometimes, and we need help to find light. The promise and reminder that we are not ever alone in the cold and dark, that the Light comes to find us and be with us … for me that’s a central truth of faith and experience that is never easy, and never not joyful. Christianity isn’t the first or only religion to hold a festival of Light in the midst of winter; it’s a brave and human thing to do. The Christmas story is the festival I grew up with, and its intimacy and immediacy and “Wait, what?”-ness open my heart to the Light in a way no other story does.

Loads of people — including some very dear to me — are already missing the warmth and light from earlier in the year. They’re walking toward winter with all the grace and self-care they can muster, while they wait patiently for the seasons that enliven them and open their hearts. I love them for that, and when spring and summer come around again I’ll celebrate with them … while I wait patiently for winter.