They spiralled down like dislodged plane rotors from the smallest fleet ever built. Millions? Well, that might’ve been exaggerating. Closer to thousands. Not one of them struck me, though. They avoided me with what I considered measured contempt. The last sycamore seeds of autumn. They could try again next year.
Autumn has swept in without my knowing. An early gloom has stolen my evening reading and ushered in the need for unnatural, electric light; it buzzes like a swarm of flies. Northern kisses settle on chapped lips, the promise of snowflake tomorrows. There’s a change. Are you ready? I am.
Twinkling one last time in the seasons slanted light,
Each leaf prepares to fall, pride apparent in extended filaments,
Awaiting that long plunge to sodden ground
Where copper memories shall chip from delicate skins
To empower the next generation
With the knowledge of yesteryear’s cycle
And the endless spiral towards their moment,
Their final chance to shine.
The forest ran red with the blood of the season, crimson leaves flowing to claret berries, then on to pools tinted bright vermillion. Autumn’s metallic beauty imbued my world with a ruby life that death had stolen away. The Nosferatu season, I called it. But then again, I could.
Spring bursts onto the scene with dreams of grandeur, its passing unnoticed. Summer fades like washed out watercolours, a petulant child. Winter melts, ashamed of the bitter friend it’s been. Autumn gusts from the trees like copper-coloured butterflies taking one last flight, the only season to depart in beauty.