So long, sweet Persephone.
I love the autumn, fall setting up under your feet, preparing you for the big tumble down to winter. Driving around, I can feel the change seeping through the clouds, cooler air slithering around summer heat, piggy-backing on the fading warm gulf winds, teasing, breaking, strangling the oppressive steam of the sultry months. I always drive faster this time of year, as if the acceleration of my car can speed up the transition, shove the metamorphosis through my open windows, under my sleeves, and mingle it with the blaring music from the radio.
They say that autumn is the season of dying, of wavering vigor, green life weakening in front of your eyes. I guess this is true, as I can already smell the receding, already taste it in the diminished quality of fruit, but I feel no remorse. This is my season. Wrap me in curled gold, and sing me to sleep with the sound of field crickets looking for love. Soon, we will all cocoon ourselves in warm sweaters and comforting hoods, spell out our desires in breath fogged windows, and watch the night beat back the sun.
Kill this year, northern wind. Bring it low and make it cry, I'm tired of being the only one screaming here. Blow past the lakes and startle the geese, show them the door so that we can be alone. Let the leaves float down, obscuring all that's gone before, and let only the soft crunch of boots remember that it was ever there. I need this. Help me out, old friend. I need to see the sky tremble in fear of the coming gray, to avert its gaze long enough for me to get my bearings. I've never been much of a butterfly, but I could pull off a moth if you'll let me, so send the monarchs south, let them sip margaritas, and I'll come crawling out, all fuzz and powder, and be charmingly unique in their absence.
I feel a little better with every fading plant, smile a little brighter with every darkening shade. Come on Hades, steal that girl away, and show her a good time. Let her mother sob, let her wither the earth in her sorrow. I feel her on this one. How lonely are you goddess? Do you have me beaten? Keep it up, sweetie, and we'll both come up roses when the butterflies get sick of the border life, and the geese ripple the water once again. For now, let's just have this out.
They say that autumn is the season of dying, of wavering vigor, green life weakening in front of your eyes. I guess this is true, as I can already smell the receding, already taste it in the diminished quality of fruit, but I feel no remorse. This is my season. Wrap me in curled gold, and sing me to sleep with the sound of field crickets looking for love. Soon, we will all cocoon ourselves in warm sweaters and comforting hoods, spell out our desires in breath fogged windows, and watch the night beat back the sun.
Kill this year, northern wind. Bring it low and make it cry, I'm tired of being the only one screaming here. Blow past the lakes and startle the geese, show them the door so that we can be alone. Let the leaves float down, obscuring all that's gone before, and let only the soft crunch of boots remember that it was ever there. I need this. Help me out, old friend. I need to see the sky tremble in fear of the coming gray, to avert its gaze long enough for me to get my bearings. I've never been much of a butterfly, but I could pull off a moth if you'll let me, so send the monarchs south, let them sip margaritas, and I'll come crawling out, all fuzz and powder, and be charmingly unique in their absence.
I feel a little better with every fading plant, smile a little brighter with every darkening shade. Come on Hades, steal that girl away, and show her a good time. Let her mother sob, let her wither the earth in her sorrow. I feel her on this one. How lonely are you goddess? Do you have me beaten? Keep it up, sweetie, and we'll both come up roses when the butterflies get sick of the border life, and the geese ripple the water once again. For now, let's just have this out.