Serried leaves pile `gainst the rear wall of the house. Browns blend into the ruddy hues of the ancient stone porch. Smoke from the burning fire hangs low in the gray afternoon. The hour seems darker than it should be, as though a pall has fallen over the earth.
I have awoken from a Sunday afternoon to find a world much different than the one I knew before. The day seemed a mild Sunny afternoon when I laid my head down for a moment`s rest, now Autumn turns her ashen face once more.
Bitter winds howl in shifting serrated gusts and, though I force restraint, tears build at the corners of my eyes. Trailing slowly down the edges of my cheek, disappearing into the dark curls that trace my jaw. I weep at the beauty, knowing that such is all too transient. The bloom and blossoms I savored in August`s Dawnings, lie slain and rustling under sandaled foot. So too shall this crisp season fade to whiter shades of pale.
My mother leans over the fire, plying kindling and stoking the coals. O, how the icy tendrils of her age now hang in the curling tendrils of once-golden hair! Worry tugs at the porches of her temples, her years carry countless stories. She does not yet see me, so I watch her and mark the time.
High above me, the Oaks and Elms sway in the wind.
“…the acrid scents of Autumn,
reminiscent of slinking beasts, make me fear
everything, tear-trembling stars of Autumn
and the snore of the night in my ear…”
This goes out to the ones that I love, this goes out to the ones I`ve left behind.
I am coming home.