Capturing the fiery brilliance of the fall season, these little berries were putting on a show the last time I visited Boston. Even in the heart of that fair city, there are mini-forests like this lending their mystery and enchantment, if you only pause to look. In the perfectly manicured garden squares in front of long rows of brownstones, or the hidden plots of green scattered throughout the South End, scenes of the season await such discovery.
Shuffling along such shaded corridors and crackling through leaves that have already dried and fallen is a rite of passage at this time of the year. We pull our coats closer, hustle a little faster, and turn to face the cold head-on. The pay-off for such a turn is in the beauty of these berries. Plants go to seed to save themselves from the winter. Even the ones that come back make their fruit in the biological ritual of reproduction. Maybe some bird will pluck one of the scarlet berries, swallow it down and shit it out into a pocket of soil – instantly fertilized and given a fair shot at life, if any such thing can be considered fair.
Or perhaps they’re poisonous, and the birds and squirrels know instinctively to stay away. Maybe scarlet means danger, and the plant only wants to be left alone, Garbo-like and secretive. I can appreciate that too.
