A Deep River Year
November 5, 2014

The small creatures of the world know that a great change is happening as we swing into a New England November.   There is less daylight to do the work of foraging and stockpiling for winter.   The chipmunks scurry back and forth from the feeders, their cheeks swollen from the load of sunflower seeds they are carrying back to their underground caches.    And the songbirds flit from bare branch to the residue of the summer garden in search of whatever may be left for them to eat.   Around the edges of the yard, there is still plenty.   The rose bushes are loaded with bright orange rosehips, and the winterberry bushes in front of the house are heavy with rows of red fruit.  And everywhere, the woods are decorated with bittersweet vines.

Most of the bittersweet in our region is an invasive plant which arrived in this country in the mid 1800s.   It spirals around fence posts and climbs the highest trees in the forest to gather sunlight, and through the summer its green  berries swell until they turn golden in autumn’s cooler days.   Then, one morning after a frost, those golden berries will explode and reveal, inside their yellow husks, deep crimson  berries.     This is nature’s autumn décor, the color reserved for the gray days after the last leaves have fallen to the earth.   We cut the vines and weave them into wreaths for the doors.  And in our dining room, they circle our ceiling chandelier and surround the table centerpiece, a colorful celebration of the dwindling year.

Those door wreaths are enjoyed by the birds, too, who eat the berries and scatter the seeds in places where we don’t want the plants to grow.   Underground their stringy orange roots begin to spread.   Beware of digging them up or pulling them out, because even just a piece of root left in the ground can generate a new plant.   And don’t eat the berries by mistake.  They are toxic to humans, even  fatal.   However, Native Americans used the plant for a variety of ailments, including reducing fever and pain in childbirth, causing vomiting, and as a skin ointment.  They knew how to do it, and I don’t.    So this bitter-tasting plant I leave to the birds and chipmunks to eat, and for us to bring just a little color into these darkening days.

 
Bittersweet

Like golden pearls,
these little fruits bejewel
their woody vines
climbing, twisting upward,
along  fence and forest trees,
growing strong in summer’s light.
And now, in these  sullen days,
through the fallowing of our land,
they claim an even brighter presence.
We admire their persistence,
curse it too,
for taking root where we would plant
some other thing more tame, less wild.
But it is noble to persevere,
to stay the course in wintry days
that we may flower again another spring.
So we gather these branches, and remember
to find sweetness in the bitter times,
to be beautiful in our dying down,
to spread our roots in deeper soil.
We remember  to be glad that
In the  time of dark and cold,
the reddest berries show.

--Timothy Haut, November 5, 2014