The Descent of Autumn | A Withered Season

Another growing season comes to an end,
Where the biting wind waits round the bend.
Sunflowers and maize fuse in the setting sun,
An offset of color before their race is run.
Autumn gold leaves glitter as a vein of hope,
Against the onset of winter’s barren slope.

The shifting wind begins to sing, come are the last days of warmth before the pale winter waste. Trees bow before the great north wind, as servants before the entrance of their master, heralds to the oncoming king. Thus Autumn descends with a dash, changing from the first frost, and that which was once green is now tarnished and replaced with gold, scarlet, and umber.

The gatherings and festivals remind us that shorter days and winter’s bite are soon to come. The children become bundled heaps as they leap from one pile of leaves into the next. All the while the great north wind whisks a bright crimson into their cheeks. The faithful scarecrow watches over the harvests as they are pulled, shucked, drawn, and sheared. As the vast moon dips below the horizon we find ourselves reflecting upon the beautiful nature of unending change.

Withering away in many hues, the warm color of decay is a radiant contrast to the cool frost and snow gathering upon the hills above our courtyards and towns.  As the frigid air descends among us, the fading light shows only silhouettes of falling leaves leading into the long night. Before you know it the crunch of trampled leaves are the only reminder that Fall once was there.

– Insignia2 –

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