I love the autumn.
Not just the beauty of the color changing tree, of the land slowly baking under long days of slanting sun.
There's also the scents -- dry, dry, dry leaves, grains, grasses, weeds. The washed earth as the harvest is gleaned from the depths. The wood cuts and stacks for winter warmth.
I love the feel of the air on my skin. A lingering caress as warmth says a lingering farewell, with reminders that it will return -- someday.
I love the tastes of fresh produce, the good clean tangy taste that is in the air, not the mouth. (I'm not real crazy about the taste of pumpkin spiced everything that has become a cultural norm, but I like that it exists and is everywhere to remind me that it is again glorious Fall.
I like the sounds; the plop of fruit dropping from trees, the crisp crunch of leaves, the crickets drowning out the cicadas. (This is the first summer in my memory where I have ever sat on the porch and heard the crickets and cicadas together in concert.)
I enjoy these other senses as I do wait for the visual changes. The sky is shading into that deep October blue shade, but the trees and plants are only just beginning to turn. For now they are yellow, brown, withering.
Will this be a Golden Autumn, with trees of gold and yellow and orange?
Will it be a flaming autumn, when the leaves are red and copper and magenta?
I can't wait to find out, and yet I must.
The season itself cannot be gathered until ripe.
Not just the beauty of the color changing tree, of the land slowly baking under long days of slanting sun.
There's also the scents -- dry, dry, dry leaves, grains, grasses, weeds. The washed earth as the harvest is gleaned from the depths. The wood cuts and stacks for winter warmth.
I love the feel of the air on my skin. A lingering caress as warmth says a lingering farewell, with reminders that it will return -- someday.
I love the tastes of fresh produce, the good clean tangy taste that is in the air, not the mouth. (I'm not real crazy about the taste of pumpkin spiced everything that has become a cultural norm, but I like that it exists and is everywhere to remind me that it is again glorious Fall.
I like the sounds; the plop of fruit dropping from trees, the crisp crunch of leaves, the crickets drowning out the cicadas. (This is the first summer in my memory where I have ever sat on the porch and heard the crickets and cicadas together in concert.)
Will this be a Golden Autumn, with trees of gold and yellow and orange?
Will it be a flaming autumn, when the leaves are red and copper and magenta?
Will the green tarry a while, or will it vanish over night?
I can't wait to find out, and yet I must.
The season itself cannot be gathered until ripe.
