What a privilege to watch the natural world die in an ecstasy of color.
Spared long cold sleep are the evergreen & holly king; his crown & poison collar.
I’m mindful of the beautied grace in a tree’s leaf-death; flitting whimsically to ground.
On windswept days of whistling cool, the ombré snow of leaves is magic; without sound.
Unlike its counterpart, blooming spring, fall will come & go in a precious instance.
The season is an anti-spring, only growing drowsier at cold’s insistence.
I’ll breath it in, while the air is temperate, mindful of the temporary present.
I’m reminded, when all is bare, life will return by the august feathered pheasant.
Yes, the busy squirrels, a telling name, are proof that winter’s about survival.
Prepare & watch! For autumn’s death puts on a show like the coming spring’s revival.
L.B.Stowe 