If April is the cruelest month because it encourages the growth of flowers but can suddenly cut them down with resurrected cold, autumn is its counterpart. The last warmth of summer lingers into autumn, and the trees reflect the turning of the season with their colorful, dying leaves. Thoreau says of autumn that the leaves teach us how to die. And the variations of color in this final process seem to crown life’s effort with triumphal portraiture.
But the progress of autumn reminds us of the dissolution of summer. Shall we look back at the flowers of summer only to reflect on their brevity in our fields and gardens? Last night, the robust flowers — yellow, orange, red, and violet — succumbed to an overnight frost. In the morning the shriveled flowers hung crestfallen and lifeless. Should we have anticipated this event and turned “modern” in our attitude? Have brought out the technologies: the plastic wrap, the warm covers? Who would encourage it?
Not the transcendentalists, who visited their flowers in visits to open nature, not by maintaining contrived and entrapped closures. Thoreau delighted in venturing to the woods, not in sitting stultified in a captured zoo-like presentation of nature. Emily Dickinson teaches us that the processes of the universe must necessarily take their course, just as nature intended. To militate against them, regret them and curse them, is to deny them and ourselves, of insight into what is true and wise and necessary. The cycle will go on with us or without us, and we are better to choose to be with it. The flowers understand, and yield, perhaps, however, dreaming that things should be otherwise.
From the Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson is number 25 from the “Death and Life” poems identified by her subsequent editors:
Apparently with no surprise
To any happy flower,
The frost beheads it at its play
In accidental power.
The blond assassin passes on,
The sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another day
For an approving God.