The skies were painted with
bright colors of gold, red, and yellow.
The rising of the sun caused a majestic
glow, and a fiery brilliance created the scene where this story begins.
Leaves
and all their fallen glory were left glistening on the ground, and were gently
kissed by the rising of the morning sun.
The hopeful smell of the coming harvest lingering in the air and the calm breeze twirling the leaves down from their
branches blows steadily in the background.
The plants are dying and yet there
is something so beautiful in the sense that through this death of summer, that
there will be new life coming after the cold winter.
Some call this season of
change fall; however, I prefer to call it Autumn.
With every drop of the
temperature, another leaf drops as well.
The full branches of the tree that
once held many green before now stand skinny and half naked with all its pride
on the floor.
The earth’s decaying nature leaves a reminisce of dust on the
souls of my shoes as I stroll through the park alone.
With chilled hands buried
in my pockets, I walk upon the path of fallen leaves and the sound of their
brokenness screams out into the atmosphere mocking every step I make.
Crunching
beneath me, I feel the cold, haunted ground as I pace myself with chilled air
stored deep within my lungs.
The oak tree’s fresh scent calls me to it, and I
climb the arms of the tree. Holding me above the dying nature around me.
The breeze of semi-frosted
air runs in and out of the strands of my hair like children playing in the
forest, and pinches the cheeks on my chilled flesh like my grandparents did
when I was growing up.
The warm air that once circulated before is nowhere to
be found, but the winds blow calmly all around.
I catch the smell of warm
chilly as it lingers to call one home for supper.
I hug the oak as I carefully
climb down the tree with the setting sky behind it’s silhouette.
I can hear the
crisp, dry sound of lifeless beauty crunching beneath my feet as I scurry home
from my evening stroll through the park.
I see the sun start to sink
back to its hiding place.
The darkness of the sky begins mixing with the
setting of the golden sun.
The sound of owls asking “who” linger while the taste of hot
apple cider races down my throat.
The smell of my neighbor’s crackling fire off
in the distance, and all is a changing with the turn of every leaf.
Soon, but
not yet, the world would have destroyed itself through winter, then started
over once more with the coming of spring.
