This hawthorn tree stands in a little gated court on the corner of Broadway and State Street in downtown Albany, right across the street from the very first state agency at which I worked almost twenty years ago. Its branches reach over the iron confines of its boundary, hanging low enough to afford these photos. In the spring it’s covered with little white flowers, and over the summer the berries develop into green and now this lovely persimmon color. I don’t often find myself passing it these days, with remote working and the increasingly inclement weather, so the changes in its seasonal garb feel more prominent and pronounced. Time moves quickly these days.
The berries are indicative of the irrevocable turn we have taken into the depths of fall. We’ve been pretty fortunate not to have had a deep hard freeze yet, and so we may have been lulled into a false sense of security. Make no mistake, and take no great comfort: winter is indeed on the way.
Autumn
By Joan Mitchell
The rusty leaves crunch and crackle,
Blue haze hangs from the dimmed sky,
The fields are matted with sun-tanned stalks —
Wind rushes by.
The last red berries hang from the thorn-tree,
The last red leaves fall to the ground.
Bleakness, through the trees and bushes,
Comes without sound.
