Autumn

The Fall,

It's not quite here yet,

Visibly,

Vividly,

Oh, how I love it!

Even my moist and tickled nose

Cannot dampen the striking affect

Of bright orange

And red

And yellow

And yes, some clinging green

Against the bright blue of the sky.

Fresh clouds float by,

Or swiftly fly.

In the springtime

There is a chill yet clinging to the earth,

Like a frozen blanket.

Then, it slowly warms,

Like numb fingers

Held to a fire,

and joyfully blossoms

into sunlight.

Is then Fall the opposite?

As the spring comes after the cold,

Is the Autumn then a chill prelude to Winter?

"Nay!" Says the flaming world.

Are not the first timid frosts that come too early

Chased back by the burning leaves of Autumn?

“Go back!” they cry, with voices warm and crackling with laughter,

“It is not yet your time! Go back to the frozen wastes, your turn has not yet come!

“Do you not know that first must come cheeks flushed like the ripe apple, and wild romps with a merry crunching underfoot? Do you not know that first comes the Harvest, and rolling down leaf covered hills and flashlight-lit games in the dark before the weather turns 

too chill?

“Do you not know that this is the time for bonfires and fingers sticky with warm marshmallow? For clear voices ringing in the crisp air and light feet not yet sucked down into the close, snowbound world?

“This is the time to fly for all those who know how, with sweater half off,

hair streaming behind,

and feet that do not seem to touch the ground.”

“Go back, chill frosts, go back! Go back! It is not get your time!”

The cool Fall air is not the breath of Winter!

Rather it is part of the vigorous song

of Autumn:

playful,

perky

and full of cheer.

Hear the Fall birds singing in 

trees still dressed in their splendor!

Hear the rake scraping

warm, dry ground,

and the rustling explosion in yonder towering pile. 

What went flying upwards

now comes fluttering down again.

Out of the leaves pops

a child’s head.

Up he springs and runs

back to his starting point

to charge back

and dive

into the pile once more.

The dazzling colors

celebrate

the birth of a new season

rather

then the funeral of the old.

This joyful tune does not change

Until the world becomes

Bare and gray

And the wind is a fierce

Icy whisper.

*But even winter has its beauty.*