Driving Through Poetry

It had rained just the other night, therefore all the trees on the hill were dripping slightly and their trunks were dark and rich with the moisture. Some trees were bright yellow others were dark crimson almost purple. The rest of the trees were every shade in between. The leaves were falling everywhere, as if it was a celebration. The slight breeze was adding to the drama as it carried the falling leaves into a whirlwind making a joyful sound before gently placing them on the ground. Quite like when I whirl my son around just to hear him laugh before I put him down.

I walked a little deeper into the trees, leaving my car on the side of the road. Looking for the one I have been watching for past three years now. The floor was carpeted with fresh fallen leaves of all colors, rustling as I walked over them. Ah! There it is, my tree! The top of the tree was bright yellow the middle was bright orange and the lower part of the tree was rust colored. The bark was a deep shade of chocolate and charcoal mixed together. And …I waited for the perfect moment when the sun struck the tree at an angle and it gleamed like a flame. The entire tree was on fire! The mise en scène was lit with an orange glow. The beams of sunlight trickled through the wet leaves as if it was raining, only it was not water drops but sunrays that were falling from the sky through the tree-leaves, bringing the soft warmth of the October sun to me who was, by now, standing right under the raining light beams.

I had never noticed the sapling that had sprung up right next to my tree. It was bright yellow, quite appropriate for its age. The bigger, wiser trees were purple with years of maple sap stored in their trunks. There were some young flirts I noticed not too far from where I stood. These had shed most all their leaves, with most of the branches bare and their few best wares on display, they were able to attract everyone’s attention with the extraordinary sparkle produced when their bright orange leaves reflected the evening sun! Then there were the weeping willows, their long tresses touching the ground, dusty yellow with grief. The row of dirty orange trees on either side of the willow seemed to try and cheer it up a bit, but the willow was deep in thought, probably outside of itself watching the hill and the spectacular display of color and texture, like I…

I stepped away from my tree to see the last rays of the sun slipping from its top. I would see this sunkissed dance of these fire breathers on this tiny corner of a large Connecticut hill every day for next few weeks. I sat down on a damp log and just absorbed the scenery through my eyes, my skin, my breath and my thoughts. I am not sure how long I sat there, wondering if there is any beauty on earth that matched this scene, when suddenly I felt the tug on my hand. My three year old was getting restless. He too had been absorbed in the scene for a while with his mother, but had suddenly discovered the lollipop she carried in her jacket pocket and wanted a piece of it. I looked at his face, his chubby cheeks bulging out of the woolen scarf that wrapped around his ears. His eyes glowing with the same orange glow…I watched the sun set on his face, I noticed the twinkle in his eyes when the tree leaves fell to the ground and he spread his tiny hands out to catch them mid-air! He jumped into a pile of freshly fallen leaves, his giggles matched those of the leaves that laughed with him under his feet…both happy to be acquainted with each other. Maybe the beauty of the scene had a tough contender after all!

“This is all pure poetry” I picked up my three-year-old and flung him up in the air “pure poetry, I say!” I was smiling almost uncontrollably as I plopped my son into his car seat. He had, by now, received his lollipop, his tiny plump fingers already working at the complicated folds of the wrapper. I started the car and drove down the hill. The trees on either side of the road leaning towards each other as lovers do, eager to kiss. The leaves fell constantly. I was still not freed from the spell of the hill, when my son asked “so are we driving through it?” “Through what, my frosted cupcake?” I posed a question on top of his question. He replied calmly, rolling the lollipop into the other cheek “Through poetry! You said this was poetry” he pointed outside the window. I moved to the side of the road and stopped the car. I had to absorb what he had said so unwittingly. I looked back to see if he understood what he had just said, but he was busy sucking on his candy and had already forgotten the question he had asked! I started the car with a smile on my face.”Yes my little cabbage! We are driving through poetry with happiness in the back seat.”

It has been twelve years since we drove together on that hill. My fifteen year old is now a young man. I am taking him to Virginia State for a campus visit. We are driving through the lovely Shenandoah Valley. It is fall again, the rolling hills are a spectacle of color and light. Dotted with orange and crimson trees, the hills are mostly yellow and green. The hills are so beautiful that clouds are swooping down into them to see them up close! I swerve at the scenic overlook. We get out of the car. I look at the hills and then to my son’s face. The chubby cheeks have been replaced with a chiseled jaw. The plump fingers with dimples by the knuckles are no longer there. But the eyes, they still twinkle and the face..oh I can still watch the setting sun on it! “This is nothing but poetry, man!” he exclaims. I look at him startled. Does he remember our time on the hill? But his face gives no such clue. We sit in the car and as I drive through the valley, I say to him…”And we are driving through it.” “Through what, Ma?” he asks. “Through the poetry my pumpkin!…we are driving through the poetry with happiness in the front seat.” I say smiling to him. He gives me the “Mom, you are weird!” look and buries his nose in the book he had picked for the road.