Monday, September 12, 2011


There is a harmony in autumn and a lustre in its sky/Which through the summer is not heard or seen/As if it could not be, as if it had not been ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley

As my favorite season approaches, I am trying to soak up what little is left of the sun, the green lush trees and soft earth. The other morning as I drove into work, I hit the crest of a hill and everything in front of me was blanketed in a thin, misty fog, including a large cemetery to my left. I just shook my head, feeling a sense of both excitement and melancholy, for a feeling washed over me that the seasons were beginning to change. I felt it in my bones. And like all change, I felt some trepidation laced with anticipation and new breath.

Fall is nearing. I can smell it. Sometimes I wish I lived within the burnished cloak of autumn all year around -- yet, its short, sweet smelling, teasing breath is what makes me appreciate it even more. And as the leaves begin to change, I will continue to alter with them. Only this year, unlike years past, I am going to try my hardest to take in every moment of that transition. There's something to be said for not knowing what exactly is to come.

I'm going to find the beauty in winter again, a season that always tears me into fragments with its long, never ending fingernails, cold, black nights and sleeping trees. I often have to piece myself back together when it finally breaks. But just as I took in the mist the other morning, I'm going to take in autumn in all its burning glory, letting it speak to me the way I haven't in a long time. And as it makes way for winter, I will embrace her, too. Because there was a time when I enjoyed catching snowflakes on my outstretched tongue, letting them fall onto my eyelashes, watching my breath take form before me and gazing in awe at the stark white landscape sparkling beneath the moonlight.


Long sage blades cease growth
As the breath of autumn wafts past
Its sanguine scent filters through leaves
Burning at their core, singing their edges
Leaning against an old tombstone, I watch them

They gently rustle in the sweet breeze, serenading me
I gaze at the weathered headstone before me
It reads: "Change is a measure of time 
And, in the autumn, time seems speeded up
What was is not and never again will be; what is, is change."
~ Edwin Way Teale

I lean my head back, feeling hot tears form beneath my lids
Slowly, they sear down my cheeks, falling to the earth
Knees to chest, my arms envelop them as I look to the sky
Fall clouds tinted with impending showers shadow me
I pull in a deep breath, feeling my ribcage slightly give

The dying earth and decaying leaves bury me 
Filling my insides with burnished flames
I feel my ashen skin flushing with color
The sun peeks out, flicking through a fiery tree
 I close my eyes once more as its rays flutter upon my lids

Yellow, brass, crimson, fuchsia

I let them dance

I let them burn

I let them change me

~ C ~

No comments:

Post a Comment