The Grace of Falling Autumn

The lyrics to one of my favourite tunes comes to mind, so I sing it.

Leaves are falling all around, It's time I was on my way...

Only the squirrels are there to hear it, but they don't seem to mind. I can hold my own behind a shower curtain, but put me on stage and you'll be sure to hear me choke the tune into submission. Other furry things are pitter-pattering about too, searching for nuts and things to hide - but not I. I take in the full glory of my surroundings. Like one blind mouse seeing for the first time, I notice every dust mote of detail. Absorbing the different colours and hues revitalizes me, and I can't help but break a smile.

Fall is amazing.

I breathe softly.

I've always loved this time of year. The smell reminds me of old pipe tobacco being drawn through leathery nostrils, mixing with old man conversations; the kind of conversations not for young 'uns ears. I see my granddad, and his granddad, stoking fires, sharing laughs, and losing time to nostalgia.

Nature's beauty is second place to my revelry, though, and for some reason, I don't seem to mind. There's a symptom of pure joy affecting me now. Autumn has the same effect on the flora, as on the fauna. The trees offer their delicate, browned leaves as a loving blessing; bears offer a simple goodbye, as they lay their weary heads down for an extended snooze; geese say adieu with migrating salutes; while some simply stay the course. I love it all. It feels like hot coffee and a slow crossword on a Sunday morning – soothing, and comfortable.

Les feuilles mortes...(the dead leaves). I adore the odor of change.

The crinkle-crunch sound beneath my feet, takes me back to the days of yore, when I would grand jeté deep into a pile of leaves that my father had spent his time raking that morning. Four feet wide, if they weren't five! I would sink to the bottom, laughing, and forget about time. History is easier to remember when you live it, I guess. I would look at the treetops glow with the change of guard, and feel the crispness of autumn air flow across my face, and listen to the birds sing their goodbye melodies with eyes crimped tightly shut. I was young then. But the seasons never grew old for me. I grew with them.

Crinkle-crunch, crinkle-crunch it goes, as I move further along into the wide and unfamiliar terrain. Though it feels new, it's not. So many firsts have brought me here, to this season. My first kiss was under a tree, just like that one, over there. Tall and inspiring, we held one another for hours under the shadow of that redwood – yes, maybe that one - and brushed lips as we spoke lover's words, and dreamed our life dreams together. We grew roots there, I suppose, and spread our seeds amongst the wildflowers. The first of many firsts under that monolith.

Oh if my heart could stand it once more!

I pass some rabbit holes, and a trickling stream where pebbles seem to grow spontaneously. There are pink ones, gray ones, and even some oddly shaped orange ones. It never ceases to fascinate me, even if I have seen them a thousand times prior. What wonders our youth must miss, if not for the old folks! What trivial, yet splendid things are yet to be seen? Can you feel it now?

The smell of cedar fills me with memories of cold nights and playing Scrabble under candle light. There is something to be said for those memories. They may fade, but always they remain a part of us, and live on in the future. Cedar and moth balls – ha! The smells of childhood come back to me in a rustle, across years of burning marshmallows, and crackling fires. Roasted nuts and singalongs.

Ah...Fall. My Fall.

She has me hooked, you know? How could I not be? Is there a time more vibrant than this? Sweet Sister Autumn, that's what I call her. Like a bee sting – she's unforgettable, and the memory - lasting.

My oh my, what a lovely evening this is!

The day is giving in to the late hours now, the warmth of a sombre fall day is being chased by the chill of Sister's breath. Like the perennial's, wilting, I too must retire for the night. My brittle bones are tired, as the sun is now, and my eyelids droop gracefully, like the many purple flowers do. The delicate treasures line my path, as I head home. At peace once again, I am refreshed, and reclaimed by a beauty that only experience can adequately enjoy.

My Fall. My Sister Autumn. My love.