(no subject)
November 7, 2002
10:55 p.m.
I love Fall. The way his leaves drift down to the ground. The way his finger then swirls the leaves 'round and 'round in miniature twisters--fancying them as we would dust. I love the way he turns the brilliant sky from a mournful, brooding gray into a crisp, smiling blue. Oh, and how I love how his voice has a slight bite to it, trying to scare you away, trying to protect you, to warn you away from Winter's coming chill. But most of all I love his silence. The birds have flown off to their summer home, the crickets are nestled somewhere deep in the woods, and it's much too dark out for children to come out and play for long.
Yes, I love the silence of Fall. He's neither solemn nor foreboding, he just is.
I'm not much like him. To tell the truth, I'm not much like any of them. Winter with his innocent garb, masquerades as a fairytale like hero from a long forgotten tale. He disguises himself in an icy blanket of snow, hiding the raw, wet ground underneath. But thankfully, with a muttered good-bye, Winter soon exits and Spring waltzes in with her eternal hope that wicked Winter won't come 'round again this year, and for once all her lovely flowers will live and her melodic birds will sing until Eternity is ushered in. Ah, but then, rather noisily, Summer interrupts Spring's graceful moment, as she comes in running and tripping over herself, with her laughing children and sun-scorched days--playing, always playing her frivolous game for two short months of the year.
And then finally, he arrives.
With measured steps and a soft, murmured hello, in walks Fall.
With his entrance, solemn secrets are shared aloud and girlish cheeks are stained a heartbroken pink with lover's farewells and with half-dead roses--from Spring's once beloved garden. The world is silent, Winter's raspy laugh has faded away, Spring's birds have flown to a warm land and Summer's darling children have been tucked away safely in their beds.
And so my companion Fall watches silently, fervently--diligently turning our pale sorrows into stunning shades of red and gold, before he too, turns in for the night.
10:55 p.m.
I love Fall. The way his leaves drift down to the ground. The way his finger then swirls the leaves 'round and 'round in miniature twisters--fancying them as we would dust. I love the way he turns the brilliant sky from a mournful, brooding gray into a crisp, smiling blue. Oh, and how I love how his voice has a slight bite to it, trying to scare you away, trying to protect you, to warn you away from Winter's coming chill. But most of all I love his silence. The birds have flown off to their summer home, the crickets are nestled somewhere deep in the woods, and it's much too dark out for children to come out and play for long.
Yes, I love the silence of Fall. He's neither solemn nor foreboding, he just is.
I'm not much like him. To tell the truth, I'm not much like any of them. Winter with his innocent garb, masquerades as a fairytale like hero from a long forgotten tale. He disguises himself in an icy blanket of snow, hiding the raw, wet ground underneath. But thankfully, with a muttered good-bye, Winter soon exits and Spring waltzes in with her eternal hope that wicked Winter won't come 'round again this year, and for once all her lovely flowers will live and her melodic birds will sing until Eternity is ushered in. Ah, but then, rather noisily, Summer interrupts Spring's graceful moment, as she comes in running and tripping over herself, with her laughing children and sun-scorched days--playing, always playing her frivolous game for two short months of the year.
And then finally, he arrives.
With measured steps and a soft, murmured hello, in walks Fall.
With his entrance, solemn secrets are shared aloud and girlish cheeks are stained a heartbroken pink with lover's farewells and with half-dead roses--from Spring's once beloved garden. The world is silent, Winter's raspy laugh has faded away, Spring's birds have flown to a warm land and Summer's darling children have been tucked away safely in their beds.
And so my companion Fall watches silently, fervently--diligently turning our pale sorrows into stunning shades of red and gold, before he too, turns in for the night.