Friday, September 27, 2013

Anticipating Autumn

What I love most about Fall is how different its approach feels than any other season.

With Spring, things begin to warm up slowly, there's the blossoms, and then all of a sudden it's 90 degrees and we're into Summer. Winter seems to happen abruptly as well. They're all beautiful in their own way, sure, but there's nothing better than the way Fall sneaks up on you. One day you're basking in the heat of late summer, and the next you wake up and there is a chill in the air, a feeling like something wonderful is about to happen. From that day on, you wear a jacket everywhere. You bust out your boots. The tip of your nose gets cold when you walk any farther than 25 yards. The heater kicks on.

It's that feeling that triggers all the others to burst out suddenly, almost unexpected, like fireworks on July 6th. It's the Halloween excitement. Fall TV premieres coupled with hope and anxiety. Amazement at the beauty of dying leaves. School nerves. Music that seems to fit better in crisp temperatures. The comfort that comes from crackling fires and the joy of frothy hot chocolate. Can you feel that? That's Fall.

For me, it's the season that induces anticipation like none else. And a sense of urgency. Like it's saying "You'd better get in all you hoped to, I don't know how long I'll be here. The snows of Winter are coming to take you hostage for five months."

So, I love Fall. And I know it when I feel it.

If you want to keep reading, here's a poem I wrote in 2003 about Fall:

Wishful Maple

When I die, everyone will notice. I want to make a scene. I am going to strip myself naked. Slowly. Piece by piece. Standing proud, limbs unsheathed, I'll shiver one last time and splatter red all over the yard. A timely pre-winter whisper will be my cue to come apart. When it is my time to die, the guard will drop and gravity will take over, slowly. It is possible my brilliant remains will be left on the knobby ground to rot. Or maybe, they will be swept into a crispy colorful pile, used as an itchy nap-time mattress or haunted hiding place and then cremated, autumnal ashes reaching a hundred nostalgic noses

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