Ah, Autumn. Most ambiguous and fickle of all seasons. Swathed in flaming colors, how quickly you give way to drab brown and murderous frost. Season of endings, of closure, mercilessly rending the gay raiment of summer, until all that is left of her bright cheer is skeletal branches rattling like restless bones in the chill wind. How shall I eulogize her sighing death when I am consumed with malaise and unable to find that which I can’t remember losing?
Ah, Autumn. I raise my glass of Bordeaux in a toast to your colors washing endlessly past my window. Clad in sturdy woolen sweater and jeans, I meander slowly through thick leaves to crest a rolling hill of stiff brown grass, to read Rimbaud under a great and spreading tree. Wise old oak, having released your leaves with scarcely a sigh, your great peace is a comfort, even as the sorrow of seasons past is forever marked upon your rugged face. You are beautiful, and you soothe my spirit that even now, tosses and turns within me like the tumbling breeze.
Ah, Autumn. Dignified lady, robed in green and gold, your auburn hair wild and wound with spider webs and dew. You slip soundlessly through these woods, your gentle countenance alive with roses that bloom in your fair cheeks. Your compassionate smile warms me and your butterfly caress on my brow quiets my soul. Grief slips away as downy peace spreads through me, and while you trade a knowing smile with the venerable oak, I drift to sleep in munificent sunlight.
-FHW
1998
Picture found on Google
