“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.
Autumn in San Diego is not Autumn in Chicago, where Joan Mitchell lived when she wrote this poem. But we understand the feeling of loss in this work. The sky is still blue, but dim. The cornstalks are now brown, like an aged Bird of Paradise stem, rather than vibrant green. There is a cold wind.
What haunts me most here is the repetition of “last” in the second stanza.
The last red berries.
The last red leaves.
Autumn is a time of ending, of parting. A reminder of mortality.
Here’s the surprising part: Joan Mitchell was only ten years old when she wrote and published this poem. But the tone of loss in the poem is well-earned, because Mitchell was writing in l935. Her entire conscious life had taken place during the Great Depression. Bread lines. Desperate people everywhere, seeking any kind of work. The unemployment rate in 1935 was 20.1%. And many, many people in America and beyond were not sure that democratic institutions were up to the task of solving the colossal problems at hand. No doubt, around the kitchen table, Mitchell had heard talk of Stalin. Of Mussolini. Of Hitler.
Wind rushes noisily off Lake Michigan in autumn, but bleakness seems to seep without sound from the landscape itself.
But we, here, are Christian people.
And we know that it is more than berries that hang from the tree.
Jesus went to His death, and conquered death, that there may be new life. Resurrection. Forgiveness.
Hope.
Look at the deciduous leaves underfoot this autumn, even here in El Cajon.
Contemplate the reality of death.
Face the bleakness.
And then remember that God has conquered death, and that bleakness does not sit on the throne of our hearts. Jesus does.
In Christ’s love,
Pastor Van
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