Bare Ruined Choirs

Time does not stand still. The trees on the property are mostly bare. The only leaves that remain are crinkled and brown. The fallen leaves now carpet the yard, for they cannot be raked into piles quickly enough. Sitting on the deck, I drink my coffee slowly, breathing in the sweetness of the creamer and the fresh air that seems to mirror the sweet conversations shared with dear friends.

A crack followed by a thud and a crash signal a falling branch, an auditory reminder of winter’s eminent presence. The trees have stopped their growing for the year and are shedding their vestigial parts.

It is 64 degrees in the middle of November, the lack of greenery and the swooping migrations of birds seem to discount the warmth. The temperature feels like a trick. Looking at the barren landscape, one would assume that air would chill your bones.

I hear a few distant chirps from birds (unlike the sounds of the sparrows and robins that I knew from my childhood) making their way to a warmer climate and the cooing of a cricket down by the pond. The cricket is heralding the last warm day, perhaps celebrating that provisions had been made for winter. These creatures sing the last few notes of the season.

I couldn’t help but think of Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare as he describes a time, “When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang/ Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,/Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.”

The speaker of the poem mourns the cold that seems to have stripped away the life that summer once held. It’s as though autumn prepares us for the twilight of winter, where we will inevitably encounter death.

The couplet at the end of the poem reads: “This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
 /To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”

As we transition out of autumn and into winter, plants decay, leaves fall and light fades as the days grow shorter. Fires are extinguished and we remember that youth doesn’t last. Inevitably, grey hairs will highlight our thick, dark curls. Crows feet will show years of laughter. Our skin will not rejuvenate itself so quickly and having one too many beers. We must start incorporating night cream into our daily routine as we approach a 10:00 bedtime.

The thing is- conclusions are inevitable. Even the most resilient forces must fade away.

I think that Shakespeare is telling us to love more strongly in the days that we are alive because in the end, everything fades. This thought sometimes feels so looming. But, when one tree branch falls, it gives way to new growth.

Winter is such a crucial time because it allows us to retreat and to be pensive. The cold that chills our bones allows our minds to think more deeply about what it means to welcome maturity and to not mourn the fading of youth. The choirs that sat along the tree branches just a few months ago will soon be singing in a warmer place and in another few months, they will return.

The cyclical nature of things allows us to gain a greater perspective with each year. It’s like when you listen to Beethoven and hear variations on a theme. Each time you hear the same notes again, your appreciation grows deeper and your understanding is more complex.

When you greet winter once again, you know the routine. This has happened before and you know that the snow will fall, but the trees will remain. They will grow another ring, their branches might fall, but moving away from youth isn’t always so scary. Things become more familiar. 

Often, with age comes the appreciation of simple, sweet pleasures like the light that falls through a bedroom window on a foggy moonlit night, the sweetness of one square of dark chocolate, or even the sharp inhale of cold air on a late November morning.