Autumn equinox is a curious turning – a quiet, muted shift.
In spring we rejoice that the long winter is nearing its end, and at the solstices there’s an expansiveness, either of endless day or burrowed-down night. But autumn, alongside the abundance of harvest, brings the promise of darkness to come. The plenty right next to the scarcity. It’s the sober equinox, the grown-up, more grounded version of its bouncy vernal sister.
Keats’ To Autumn is a natural accompaniment to the season, and yet this glorious poem is sometimes met with a jaded world-weariness. Saying you love this poem is like saying you love the Beatles, or Michaelangelo. Sure, genius, but duuuuuh! You can practically hear the rolling of sophisticated eyeballs in their sockets.
(To be fair to the Jaded Ones, whenever I read the first line, I picture it as reprised by Renée Zellweger and Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones’ Diary.)
Keats? So overdone. So predictable. So last century. Actually, so last-last century. Sigh.
Sit with a glass of wine. Watch the stubble-plains grow rosy. Listen to the hedge crickets’ song. Rejoice in the music of the season. Watch the last oozings. Revel in them.