Wispy

In the passing of the seasons, especially when summer moves into fall, past hours lived rear up and demand to be considered.  Perhaps the sight of decay triggers an automatic reflective mindset. 

 

 

Fall begins as a festival of color. If you walk about leaves fall drifting by you.  Swirling, spinning they are washed in bright shades of yellow, red and orange.  Within a day or two the maple leaf gliders have turned brown as they rest upon the earth. 

 

 

The silent earth is growing colder as it waits to reclaim us all.  In another couple of trips from day to night to day the pieces of fall’s bright garment lay clogging gutters in a brown, icky, clumpy mass of rot.  Smiles at the cheerful carnival of summer’s end give way to eyes downcast and thinking about what might have been.

 

 

The thoughts may range from morose to wistful.  Ideas about what the turning of the season means may linger for a mere moment followed by acceptance.  On the other hand a scent of wood smoke from leaf pile pyres may bring us back to a very specific time and place. Before the frost comes I will revisit probably every fall I have lived since 1974. Some of them will bring me smiles and some will bring me tears.  But that is what life is, is it not, a mixed bag.