A poem for autumn

‘... Autumn’



You turn onto the gravel road, round a bend and the world you know disappears in a swirl of dust.

You stop, get out of the car. The stillness is overpowering.

You fill your lungs with the sharp, clean air and look about. Clusters of orange-red bittersweet cling to the sagging wire fence. Beyond the fence, heads down, a dozen white-faced cows mow their way on the grassy hillside.

And atop the hill a grove of sugar maples blazes scarlet against the blue of the sky. You lean back against the car, breathe deeply again.

Ecstasy. You realize that Thoreau had the right idea.

Would that you had a Walden of your own.



Here’s where it is, Autumn seems to say. Here’s where you find peace, tranquility, freedom from care.

And she’s right. You sense a sort of earthy nirvana, a feeling of belonging, of being in tune.

You start and turn at the sudden intrusion of a machine sound. Below the road, a cornfield stretches as far as your eye can see, its rows tall and straight, its leaves faded yellow, rustling ripe.

The rumbling sound you heard comes from within the field. It crescendos and a monster corn picker surges into view devouring two rows at a time, snapping off the ears, ripping loose the husks, sending the golden harvest tumbling into a wagon behind. The farmer smiles, waves a friendly greeting and disappears back into the field.



Autumn makes her message clear. Work hard, she says. But relax too.

Appreciate beauty where you find it. Love life. And when you feel the walls closing in, come ride with me.



— by William Everett Trutner, of Leesburg, Ohio



published Oct. 9, 1969 in The Cincinnati Enquirer