Dry crackling leaves scuttle across the asphalt, propelled by autumn ghosts. Footsteps echo against pavement haunted by the season’s turning.
Earth smells of dying leaves and ferns, sweet and pungent. How can death smell so poignant? How can death remind you of leaping into a newly raked pile of leaves and burying your face in a smell of heaven so crisp and musty, rolling in the red and orange and yellow paradise of fallen angels?
The gowns of summer fall away slowly to reveal autumn nakedness . The trees and plants release dried flowers from tangled hair. They playfully drop necklaces of shining concord grapes, fat red apples, tousled sprigs of wild rose.
In fullness, they fluttered against a thousand winds, danced beneath the fickle changing moon, sunbathed in chlorophyll rays, drenched in rain’s pattering cascades.
Now they dream of bones, bare bones, emptiness. They dream of returning to skeleton, to condensing into lean necessity. They dream of letting go, releasing. They dream of clicking branches against the full harvest moon, the owls visible to mice scampering below.
Ferns yellow and droop into brown; maples ignite fiery red. Poplars suckle yellow; oaks chant Druid prayers toward All Soul’s Day. The forest celebrates in colorful splendor, a feast for eyes reflecting summer green, a redgoldyellow pageant of riotous sensuous unfolding.
Nature peaks in exquisite orgasmic color before turning, turning, turning toward the earth, the fibrous roots, the underground ripening, the emptiness which turns full between stone and dirt and moss, preparing for the spark of fire in the womb of seed to shudder upward when spring beckons with the croak of spring peepers.
Earth turns into Equinox, bowing to the marvel of itself.