The Sweet Autumn clematis that festooned the trellis with small glossy leaves all summer has burst into blossom. Swarmed by bees, its tiny, star-like flowers give off a heady aroma of vanilla and clove. In another few weeks, these flowers will morph into clouds of fluffy silver seed heads. The mint and basil in the herb garden have already bolted, sending up soft purple plumes, studded with golden seeds. In the wildflower field, the pods of the milk weed have burst their seams, letting loose their silky filaments into the air. And all day long you can hear the sound of acorns dropping from the stand of towering oaks – hard little self-contained embryos seeking fertile ground. Though the garden appears to be dying back, it’s actually a time of rapid transformation when so many plants – in a last great burst of energy – rush to propagate themselves as the colder days set in.
Fall
Mary Oliver
the black oaks fling
their bronze fruit
into all the pockets of the earth
pock pock
they knock against the thresholds
the roof the sidewalk
fill the eaves
the bottom line
of the old gold song
of the almost finished year
what is spring all that tender
green stuff
compared to this
falling of tiny oak trees
out of the oak trees
then the clouds
gathering thick along the west
then advancing
then closing over
breaking open
the silence
then the rain
dashing its silver seeds
against the house