Shouldn't…but Do

This morning I paused at my son’s school to look eastward. The sun rose, a butter yellow disk through lifting fog.

Partial wetlands blanket the school campus and a tributary runs directly beneath a light walking bridge to the school. Slimmed by meager rain, the stream itself wandered between burgeoning banks of seasoned flora – echinacea, aged goldenrod, grasses, stream loving plants.

From the bridge, such colours – deep browns, licks of purple, gold, red, green, grey, chartreuse, puffy, stiff, dispersed seedheads of every kind – an autumnal cloak the likes of which I have never seen. To hold, to wear such a thing, to be a plant among such company, a sensuality far beyond a crisp summer day.  A  fine mist blurred the colours, just as age blurs my own eyes.

Later I spoke with the school secretary, mentioning the autumn finery — she spoke exuberantly about trees just hinting of the show to come.  In time – yes, the trees will seem gaudy next to their shorter competition  — but for now, my attention is to the ground, the carpet of cooling, pooling, passionate colours that lay as gifts around my feet.