Autumn
By: ShinigamiForever
A/N: Inspired by the poem of the same name, by Longfellow, and the beautiful and haunting Butterflies of Light, by Katsu. I'm really fond of fall as a setting for my stories. If you can't tell, one of my favorite poets is Longfellow. So enjoy. By the way, no real clue as to who is the predominant "he" and who is the person talking, but probably Duo is the "he" and Heero is the "I".
***
"With what a glory comes and goes the year!
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves. The purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings,
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.
O what a glory doth this world put on
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent!
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.
He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear."
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
'Autumn'
***
It's autumn again, outside. The glow of red leaves is visible from the window, as I stare out, looking for something that can never come back. Things that are lost are like fall, they drop and wilt, only to find that the successors are beautiful, dazzling, summer. I miss hope. It is something I've been in want of.
The leaves drift slowly as I view them from my point up on the balcony. They remind me of him, and remind me of things I don't need reminding of. It's funny how you look at things and you just forget how that one particular thing relates to another, and then it just sort of snaps into place, you remember again, but that particular thing is gone, you then forget why it was important. Like dreams. I can remember all the things about him, but I can't remember why they're important, like some puzzle piece you can't put somewhere.
He used to tell me that autumn was the one season that loved him. And I'd never venture to ask why. After all, that was what he was like, always full of some answer that doesn't make sense until the question is there, and then you realize what the hell he was talking about. That comment he told me was an answer to something. But I'm too weary now to look for the question. Perhaps in that moment he whispered one of the great truths of life in my ear. I've forgotten now why fall was important to him.
He liked to collect leaves. I don't know, maybe it was the strange climate we lived in, but the leaves off the trees all turned a flaming, burning red. Maples, I know, turn a color that is almost the same, but the trees here are a captivating bold red color, deeper than blood and more full in richness than any red rose. It's almost the color of passion, I used to think, of the passion of life that flows through everybody's veins. Some indescribible color mixed with blood and tears and sweat, so sweet it's almost unbearable, yet it holds the acrid taste of smoke and pain. The leaves here are like that.
He'd swoop down on the ground and pick some off the piles, the carpets that lined the sidewalk and made soft luxurious mats. Sometimes, we would lie down on those huge piles of leaves, molten fire beneath us, and laugh and talk and joke. Sometimes, he would kiss me, or I would kiss him, and out of the corner of my eye I can see other couples laughing and empathizing with us, it would be beautiful suddenly. The sky was a greyish blue color that made him smile.
Lying out there, I used to feel that somehow, I was larger than the universe, bigger than anything, bigger than the world. It's like soaring in space with yourself as the wings, and you're bigger than the Gundams, bigger than the war that was over yet is still commencing within us, the emptiness, the feeling of cold, and you're out there picking up pieces of your shattered life and placing them together. And after that I'd still be flying, kissing him, lips meeting and tongues entwining, out there in that world that was too small for us.
Anyway, the leaves he picked up got placed in books back home, or draped around the house until they shriveled and cracked. Sometimes, in some pile of dust, there's still some bits of dried leaf left, a darker red color in it's age and state of dryness, but still a lovely red. I used to grumble at him, doing messy jobs that were stuck to me to clean up. But I was just pretending, I didn't mind, and it was worth it, to see the color of the leaves reflected in his eyes as he lifted them close to him and laughed.
He used to say that if you loved something enough, it would love you back, as much as it could love. Funny, I never knew if he was talking about me or autumn. He was always stating what should be, what should be right, what should have happened. But he truly believed that autumn loved him back, as much as he loved it. Maybe that was why he liked to go out and lie in its embrace, enclosing himself in the hues of red and the wind that was soft and loving. At times he seemed unreachable, pulled away from me by his other lover, autumn. And autumn was so hard to refuse, so hard to resist, as sometimes, it would pull me away too.
"And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets."
I know that Longfellow was talking about poetry. But as I read "The Spirit of Poetry" over again, I can't help but think that it was autumn and him that Longfellow was talking about. And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill the world. For me, that spirit was him and autumn.
What scares me, as I think about it now, was that even when he loved me, I knew he loved something else. Maybe life, or happiness, or autumn itself, but it was something I knew I had to yield to. Mortally, I was his only lover, but as an entity he loved, I was only second. It's something about me that always wants to be first. But what also scares me about it was that I gave in to being second.
What scares me even more was that I was happy about it.
He always knew something more than we did. Something had expanded his horizon a long time ago, and forever it remained expanded. He thought differently inwardly. He possessed a type of poetic soul that no poet possessed. If Fate had dealed him another hand of cards, he would have been a shocking poet, and not a shocking soldier. If Fate had only been kind to him, he would have stunned our minds with words of infinite wisedom and pondering, with wistful, semi-sweet slices of art, with beautiful, exquisite patches of thoughts. But as Fate would have it, his chance at that was nonexistent. Still, even his voice possessed a hypnotic quality. The hypnotic quality of himself.
I throw upon the windows to the outside. The wind of autumn once again sweeps through my hair and through my skin, brisk and gentle, cool and warm, sad and cheerful. It encircles me once more, allowing me to go back furthur and furthur into some memory of the past, drawing me away until I reach the fatherest point. But unlike him, I don't come back with a sudden fall. I withdraw slowly, the wind desperate to pull me back again. And as I open my eyes, I gaze once more at the tree tops, blushed with a brilliant red, and the sky, painted a grey-blue. I watch the journey of the solitary leaves that fall from such a high place up onto the ground. The lovers that walk, hand in hand, arm in arm. The birds that fleck against the sky, spots of white and black.
For a moment, I forgot that I always hated autumn.
I hated it because it belonged to him, and he belonged to it. I hated the leaves, the wind, the sky, the quiet lulling of its weather. I hated myself, because although I hated it, I loved it too. Most of all, I hated him, for loving us both.
I used to hate autumn.
I think I still do, in fact.
But I also think I stopped hating it as much. Because he's gone, and I'm left. I'm autumn's only lover now.
And I let the wind pull me back, until I think I'm flying with him, swirling admist rains of fiery leaves, and soaring above the world that was too small for us.
I think maybe I can love autumn as much as he did.
" There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds..."
By: ShinigamiForever
A/N: Inspired by the poem of the same name, by Longfellow, and the beautiful and haunting Butterflies of Light, by Katsu. I'm really fond of fall as a setting for my stories. If you can't tell, one of my favorite poets is Longfellow. So enjoy. By the way, no real clue as to who is the predominant "he" and who is the person talking, but probably Duo is the "he" and Heero is the "I".
***
"With what a glory comes and goes the year!
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves. The purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings,
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.
O what a glory doth this world put on
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent!
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.
He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear."
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
'Autumn'
***
It's autumn again, outside. The glow of red leaves is visible from the window, as I stare out, looking for something that can never come back. Things that are lost are like fall, they drop and wilt, only to find that the successors are beautiful, dazzling, summer. I miss hope. It is something I've been in want of.
The leaves drift slowly as I view them from my point up on the balcony. They remind me of him, and remind me of things I don't need reminding of. It's funny how you look at things and you just forget how that one particular thing relates to another, and then it just sort of snaps into place, you remember again, but that particular thing is gone, you then forget why it was important. Like dreams. I can remember all the things about him, but I can't remember why they're important, like some puzzle piece you can't put somewhere.
He used to tell me that autumn was the one season that loved him. And I'd never venture to ask why. After all, that was what he was like, always full of some answer that doesn't make sense until the question is there, and then you realize what the hell he was talking about. That comment he told me was an answer to something. But I'm too weary now to look for the question. Perhaps in that moment he whispered one of the great truths of life in my ear. I've forgotten now why fall was important to him.
He liked to collect leaves. I don't know, maybe it was the strange climate we lived in, but the leaves off the trees all turned a flaming, burning red. Maples, I know, turn a color that is almost the same, but the trees here are a captivating bold red color, deeper than blood and more full in richness than any red rose. It's almost the color of passion, I used to think, of the passion of life that flows through everybody's veins. Some indescribible color mixed with blood and tears and sweat, so sweet it's almost unbearable, yet it holds the acrid taste of smoke and pain. The leaves here are like that.
He'd swoop down on the ground and pick some off the piles, the carpets that lined the sidewalk and made soft luxurious mats. Sometimes, we would lie down on those huge piles of leaves, molten fire beneath us, and laugh and talk and joke. Sometimes, he would kiss me, or I would kiss him, and out of the corner of my eye I can see other couples laughing and empathizing with us, it would be beautiful suddenly. The sky was a greyish blue color that made him smile.
Lying out there, I used to feel that somehow, I was larger than the universe, bigger than anything, bigger than the world. It's like soaring in space with yourself as the wings, and you're bigger than the Gundams, bigger than the war that was over yet is still commencing within us, the emptiness, the feeling of cold, and you're out there picking up pieces of your shattered life and placing them together. And after that I'd still be flying, kissing him, lips meeting and tongues entwining, out there in that world that was too small for us.
Anyway, the leaves he picked up got placed in books back home, or draped around the house until they shriveled and cracked. Sometimes, in some pile of dust, there's still some bits of dried leaf left, a darker red color in it's age and state of dryness, but still a lovely red. I used to grumble at him, doing messy jobs that were stuck to me to clean up. But I was just pretending, I didn't mind, and it was worth it, to see the color of the leaves reflected in his eyes as he lifted them close to him and laughed.
He used to say that if you loved something enough, it would love you back, as much as it could love. Funny, I never knew if he was talking about me or autumn. He was always stating what should be, what should be right, what should have happened. But he truly believed that autumn loved him back, as much as he loved it. Maybe that was why he liked to go out and lie in its embrace, enclosing himself in the hues of red and the wind that was soft and loving. At times he seemed unreachable, pulled away from me by his other lover, autumn. And autumn was so hard to refuse, so hard to resist, as sometimes, it would pull me away too.
"And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets."
I know that Longfellow was talking about poetry. But as I read "The Spirit of Poetry" over again, I can't help but think that it was autumn and him that Longfellow was talking about. And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill the world. For me, that spirit was him and autumn.
What scares me, as I think about it now, was that even when he loved me, I knew he loved something else. Maybe life, or happiness, or autumn itself, but it was something I knew I had to yield to. Mortally, I was his only lover, but as an entity he loved, I was only second. It's something about me that always wants to be first. But what also scares me about it was that I gave in to being second.
What scares me even more was that I was happy about it.
He always knew something more than we did. Something had expanded his horizon a long time ago, and forever it remained expanded. He thought differently inwardly. He possessed a type of poetic soul that no poet possessed. If Fate had dealed him another hand of cards, he would have been a shocking poet, and not a shocking soldier. If Fate had only been kind to him, he would have stunned our minds with words of infinite wisedom and pondering, with wistful, semi-sweet slices of art, with beautiful, exquisite patches of thoughts. But as Fate would have it, his chance at that was nonexistent. Still, even his voice possessed a hypnotic quality. The hypnotic quality of himself.
I throw upon the windows to the outside. The wind of autumn once again sweeps through my hair and through my skin, brisk and gentle, cool and warm, sad and cheerful. It encircles me once more, allowing me to go back furthur and furthur into some memory of the past, drawing me away until I reach the fatherest point. But unlike him, I don't come back with a sudden fall. I withdraw slowly, the wind desperate to pull me back again. And as I open my eyes, I gaze once more at the tree tops, blushed with a brilliant red, and the sky, painted a grey-blue. I watch the journey of the solitary leaves that fall from such a high place up onto the ground. The lovers that walk, hand in hand, arm in arm. The birds that fleck against the sky, spots of white and black.
For a moment, I forgot that I always hated autumn.
I hated it because it belonged to him, and he belonged to it. I hated the leaves, the wind, the sky, the quiet lulling of its weather. I hated myself, because although I hated it, I loved it too. Most of all, I hated him, for loving us both.
I used to hate autumn.
I think I still do, in fact.
But I also think I stopped hating it as much. Because he's gone, and I'm left. I'm autumn's only lover now.
And I let the wind pull me back, until I think I'm flying with him, swirling admist rains of fiery leaves, and soaring above the world that was too small for us.
I think maybe I can love autumn as much as he did.
" There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds..."