Yup,
it’s that time again. By far the coldest morning of the year, the weather gizmo on my cell phone warned me that it was 13̊ at
dawn in McHenry County, which despite the recent clock set-back to Standard
Time still comes too damned early.
It
has been an unusual Fall, very wet
early—the grass never went dormant
and is still lush and green where it peeks out from the fallen
leaves even when it tinged with morning frost. Until this week it has mostly been unusually warm. I was wearing my straw hat and shirtsleeve
shirts deep into October.
We
didn’t get a dazzling color display this
year. A lot of trees still hold their green leaves. Color changes of others were more muted than usual. The ubiquitous maples, the most common urban
tree in these parts since the elms and
ash trees were virtually wiped out by disease
or vermin, never turned that brilliant, bright yellow we look forward
to and they clung to leaves just beginning to leach their green and browning
on the edges. Then on Wednesday
morning after the first hard frost
of the season as I came to work in bright
morning the maples of Crystal Lake and Woodstock began to shed
their leaves, falling like a shower
into deepening piles all around.
Still,
the chill reminded me of the morning that inspired this poem as I walked to another job as a school custodian in Cary more than 15 years ago.
Mid-November Dawn
The time has come,
I know, I
know.
The soft frosts that fade
at the
first blush of light
are over.
The grass
snaps now
with each
step,
the cold
seeps around
the buttons
of my coat,
up my
sleeves,
down my
neck.
Of a sudden the leaves,
just
yesterday the glory
of the
season,
are shed in
heaps and drifts.
The bare
arms that held them
shiver in
the dawn.
Long clouds of starlings
swirl and
trail across
the
lowering sky,
crows
clamor over
carrion
earth.
The time has come,
I know, I
know.
But just when the wail of grief
wells in my
throat,
the keening
for utter loss
that crowds
my senses
and my
soul—
a simple doe ambles unconcerned
across the scurrying road
into a remnant patch of wood,
somewhere just out of sight
the half-maddened stag
thrashes in the brambles.
The time has come,
I know, I
know.
My blood quickens in the cold,
death falls
away.
—Patrick Murfin
 |
| The then Not-So-Old-Man showing off his wares and ready to autograph copies of We Build Temples in the Heart at the old Congregational Unitarian Church in Woodstock back in 2004. |
This originally appeared in a
slightly different form in my 2004 collection We Build Temples in the Heart
published by Beacon Press, Boston. By the way, I have copies available and will send you or your loved ones a personally inscribed copy for the low, low price of $8. I’ll even pay the postage! They make great Christmas stocking stuffers for your literate friends. Or, piss off your children by using it
instead of a lump of coal—they will
be just as disappointed and angry!
Message
me privately or e-mail pmurfin@sbcglobal.net and we can exchange postal addresses so you can send me
a check and I can send you a book. Such a
deal!
