Melancholy wanders in to live with a lot of us in the fall, through the darkening days and the chilling rain. That’s all well and good (and really, it’s a very cozy kind of melancholy). The summertime kind is not cozy or enjoyable. Melancholy may not even be the right word – this year, it’s a grey fog that covers everything. I mentioned in my writing group a couple weeks ago that all I seem to have the energy for is Facebook and Candy Crush. Not writing, not thinking, not cooking, not reading, not anything else I usually like to do.
However, in a spurt of the productive kind of melancholy I produced something, as I said I would. And as I’ve mentioned before, saving face is a great motivator!
The following must be read in a morose tone and you must ponder getting older whilst reading.
While I bemoaned the winter-bare branches Spring came without my noticing.
I looked again and the woods glowed greenly in the faint sun.
Then summer roared in before I appreciated the bright spring-green leaves, still soft and dewy, sticky with brand-newness; not yet made tough by the blasting summer wind nor scorched and wrinkled by glaring sun. The leaves rose to meet the sun eagerly, raising themselves as high as they could, toward the heat, toward the light, toward anything they could reach.
And before I could even take an afternoon to soak the season in, the sun dropped, the earth turned, and the leaves drew in on themselves, drying, wrinkling, turning red and gold and old, but more beautiful than before.