the lady autumn

 

Seven a.m., and the world is bathed in gilt edging from a liquid-gold sunrise. Every color in the valley is a few shades brighter, as if God gave the world a fresh paint job in the night, His brushstrokes still damp with dew; the shadows of the trees seem to stretch all the way to the western horizon in the low angular light. I breathe in, and I can smell the subtle sweetness of Autumn’s beautiful cruelty—threatening ever colder as the nights go by, and severing leaf by pale yellow leaf from its life-giving tree.

Lady Autumn is not a modest season. No, she is everything that is bold, daring, and dramatic—yet with a softness that cleverly disguises her ruthlessness. She is beautiful, even irresistible. I know that she brings death, that the world’s new vibrance is a mere cover-up for the monochrome veil she is about to draw. Yet I am entranced, I am bewitched—for she takes my breath away.