As a life-long New Englander, it’s a bit silly how enamored I am with autumn. There’s something the weather and colors awake within me – the ghost of an old soul, if you will. It all astounds me – from the vibrant colors, to the chill, to the satisfying crunch of leaves under my boots. There is no sensation that rivals the fog of a crisp autumn morning, no taste to overwhelm the bite of hot apple cider, no better time to be alive than New England in the fall.
I am a bit of a romantic about the whole thing.
It’s like watching the world crawl from its cocoon to it’s short life as a butterfly. At first, there is nothing extraordinary. The fog hums low to the ground and the patient cows idle in their pastures. All is as it should be.
Then, as though a shroud has been torn from the world, it all changes. It evolves, and it happens so quickly that if you blink, you may miss it entirely.
At first, it is just a few hints. A tinge of red at the edge of the leaves. A sudden chill. The thicker fog spreading across the lake.
You let it all pass by, a trick of the imagination, but it’s quite more than that, because soon, autumn is blossoming!
The landscape becomes a watercolor painting, when even at its gloomiest, it shines. Reds and orange tickle the shoreline and creep up the trees like a welcome flush of technicolor dreams that must surely be a vision, but even now, you must realize you are so fortunate to exist in this wonderland.
These are the beauties of October, the majesty of the land and the glory of nature itself. She comes in like a mistress and steals your breath away with a wave of her jeweled hand. Before you know it, you are completely mesmerized by her golden gown, her ruby rings and topaz pendant. She glows brighter than any before her, and her waltz has only just begun.
And yet, you can’t help it.
Suddenly the cinnamon perfume is gone, and the lady is falling, falling and her colors become muted and forlorn, like a prophecy of some great misfortune. You want to gather her back up in your arms and throw her back up towards the stark blue sky, but it is not so simple. The apples tumble from the trees, rotten. The pumpkins are scattered as discarded jack-o-lanterns. And the leaves wilt and fall, brown and dry and dead.
So this is my ode of Autumn, that stunning damsel who sways arm-in-arm with October. It is my favorite time of year, so fleeting. It lifts me up and haunts me, then leaves me alone in the graveyard of time, waiting for winter’s first snow.
“Flâneur” – Daily Post Photo Challenge