Yellow

Walking to the pond in the Forest Hills Cemetery, I was overtaken by the dominance of yellow. Or perhaps it was gold. The oaks were singing yellow-gold and brown and there was very little, if any, of the brilliant reds that the maples contribute.

Maybe it was the sparse rainfall in the spring and summer or maybe it was some other vagary of the natural world. But in this place it was surprisingly consistent. Now, this is no complaint. There’s much to be said for a color palette that is deeper rather than wide. And while I noticed the lack of red, I was not disappointed.

In fact, the yellow-gold-brown trees, with leaves falling like snow in the slender wind, and with the mist softening the edges, it all created an autumn alchemy. It was the emblem of year’s end, so often full of cold and yearning, if not sorrow, and it was transformed into quiet, reflective excitement at the coming turning of the season.

It’s a different transition than in the spring; but it can be just as deep, just as joyous, even with the coming dark time.