I love the sound of those words–deep autumn. So sad and so beautiful all at once. What the Japanese would call wabi-sabi— finding beauty in something you otherwise might find excruciatingly painful. (This is a gross oversimplification, I know. Whole treatises have been written about wabi-sabi, with disagreement on exactly how to explain the concepts.) To me, they seem akin to melancholia–in the best sense of that word. The kind of melancholia, for example, that Shakespeare’s lovers endure . . . because they must, because they have no other choice, regardless of whether they are a Romeo or a Rosalind.
For me, deep autumn is like that. A last gasp at the beauty of fall before the austerity of winter blasts into our lives. A reminder of the impermanence of beauty, but, at the same time, a letting go of the season so the cycle can continue on . . . and, hopefully, return again in a slightly altered form. Deep autumn. Wabi-sabi . . .
no words to describe
the crow’s caw