As my rolling hills slowly seep with copper in the early evening light, I shuffle home beneath the discarded clothing of trees. Her leaves lay about like paper-thin nightgowns, lazily tossed. My thoughts are only interrupted with the clud of a swollen chestnut or the bickering of a crow. I contemplate the dichotomy of fall; how the few brave vines hurriedly climb up cold stone walls, throw themselves on to dead branches, and splay like blood on to the grey side walk. Everyone has long since slithered home and I can see, in the wildness of what is left, that they feel the cold creeping.
Summer may be for sticky hands tugging down on white cotton dresses. It may be for running, downhill, in a whir of chartreuse to wiggle one’s toes in the cool of the garden’s mud. Summer is for moment dwelling, non-thinking, heads full of hydrangea fireworks and songs about sex not even disguised as love, heard in line for a milk shake.
But Autumn! Oh my melancholy Autumn! Autumn is the sickly sweet, the grating scent of decay, buzzing just beneath your feet. Autumn is for visiting a dead squirrel morning on your walk, watching his jarred face return to earth with the little workers that scatter him. Autumn is for nodding at the shy, white mushrooms, peering from neglected shrubbery. I delight in the tearing down of summer’s frippery, the preparation for rest. Autumn, is for regeneration, I think, sitting under a tired oak, with Thoreau and a cup of tea.