This morning the sun is golden but the is grass heavy, soaked, and cold. The river is speckled with puffs of foam that look like ice. The bus has come and gone, and in it now someplace along these roads is a boy who has this week worn hat and gloves each day. Autumn is often a coy lady. She touches a tree lightly and it begins to blush. She draws little tendrils of ice on the windows that look like frozen laughter. She drapes the grass with diamonds and then melts them away later with a look. This year Autumn appears to be done with her flirtations. She is neither the bee, not the butterfly. She is the hammer of the north though I cannot tell if it is from indifference or exuberant love. She will madly embrace the trees red and shake their leaves down, throw glitter on the grass, breath on the windows until they are as opaque as rice paper. Ah lady Autumn, we still love you and long for you. But this aggressive streak is simply unbecoming.
Posted on: Wed, 18 Sep 2013 11:43:39 +0000
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