Dandelionlady
The fall wind has come visiting again. Every year I hear her. Two days ago I heard her cry, wuthering around my house. The aching creaking of my house’s bones isn’t long away. The leaves are falling too, and the equinox has come and gone.
I look forward to the subtle beauties of fall. I can tell the month by the color of the maples. First come the bright orange ones, I’m not sure what kind they are, but September’s cornflower blue skies accompany them. Then come the red ones. Those are the silver maples. They come with the fires of the ancestors, with All Hallow’s Eve and Dia de los Muertos. The last of the maple are the sugar maples. They hold out until November’s steely skies come. Yellow and grey are the last colors of fall before everything descends into shades of bone and stone.
I love the way the water pools and the leaves leave rusty imprints on the sidewalk, and the faint tinge of decay and earth in the air. I love the sweetness of apples and the smell of woodsmoke and knowing that outside of the fire’s reach the air is chill and crisp. Fall is my favorite season, bittersweet and beautiful.
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