To Autumn

Each season of the year has its unique qualities and purpose. Autumn is the time to collect fruits, fruits of all kinds. Trees begin looking and sounding differently, whenever the wind blows.The Forest in Autumn”, Gustave Courbet

Even the remaining birds that have not yet left for the season are rarely singing.  The sky fills with heavy rainy clouds while each ray of sun is perceived almost as a miracle. The aroma of fallen leaves rises up in the air and mingles with the smell of burning logs in the chimneys of cozy houses. Unforgettable yellow, incredible shades of red; sometimes autumn leaves become so crimson that they appear nearly purple.

But the main color of autumn is gold, a color with a purely cosmic origins. Gold pre-exists the formation of the Earth, the strongest forces in the earth’s mantle are unable to change the composition of gold’s atomic nucleus.

This is what autumn is like. We can no longer change the currency of events; all the aims we pursued since the start of the year now come to their final state, and we have to just accept the cause and preserve what is left. It gets darker earlier, days are shorter and tasks are less demanding. Autumn is there for us to enjoy the existing achievements and gather all the forces for the coming winter and New Year.

As inspiring and fairy as the French autumn forest, the new piano album by Anna Bondareva  L‘Automne was recorded in France. Let’s feel this golden warmth of French autumn via an extravagant piano music.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind…

An extract from ”To Autumn’, the poem by John Keats