Falling of the Leaves

Each season has its own distinct quality, but there is something particularly striking about fall. The air becomes light, crisp, caffeinated. Perfumed by firewood, the breeze blows by briskly, tickling scarves and springing through girls' hair. Made vibrant by the color of the falling leaves, death's hand wears painted nails; yellow, red and orange.

It is a season that invites intimacy and closeness through cooling. Lovers hold each other closer; chilled elbows reunite with that area just below the ribs; muscles hug the bones a bit tighter as they shiver in a trembling embrace. It's rarely cold enough to be uncomfortable, but it's significant enough to incite change; in dress and drink, manner and motivation. Hot buttered rum and extra layers. Hot chocolate and pumpkin pie. A faint bouquet of cinnamon and spice carried past on a gusty wind.

There is a sense of saying goodbye, an escape from summer's hot breath. There is a cutting away of excess: an abscission. One can feel a congealing, things ethereal taking shape. Hidden messages lie buried in the fallen leaves, sheared from the heads of bald trees. Pigeons and squirrels rummage dutifully through the brittle husks searching for treasures to harvest for the coming winter. All creatures seem to move purposefully, with ardor and prescience, tying up the last of their loose ends before winter hangs its icy chrysalises off the limbs of frozen elms.

And so do we, stuffing our pantries with warm sundries for those cold, lonesome nights when we'll sit beside the fire and look out glass windows, watching fall's invisible scissors cut down the last bits of yellow.