This happens to be my favourite time of year. I remember the chill wind impinging
itself on sunny days, a portent of the changing seasons. Time spent walking in the pine woods, stepping
lively over fallen tree trunks and the rustle of dried grass against my jeans. There was a certain smell
to the air then, fresh and clean, even without rain, and an undeniably musky odour of plants that had
come full cycle and now rested in the gathering mulch. My friends and I revelled in this season, taking
camping trips in the natural beauty so near at hand, almost every weekend. We sat around the low
embers of a fire of oak boughs, talking about our lives, our loves, our dreams, our aspirations. We
laughed, we cried, we mused over things we didn't yet understand, and we spoke with clarity of the
things we'd witnessed and personally experienced. It all seemed so definite, so important, so vital, so
real. The conversations would ebb and flow, the embers would dim, and we'd find our way to our
respective sleeping bags, bundling our bodies away from the cold night air, bundling in our thoughts
and contemplating what new things we'd learned about each other as we drifted off to sleep, to await
the pale sun of a new Autumn day.

Dark chill mornings

Give way to Autumn's low sun

And cool stiff breezes

Pale sun peeks through clouds

Barely warming the landscape

After last harvest

Rain remains longer

Light slants lower in the sky

Waning days of Fall

Poetry and Prose Archives

Blue-Eyed BiPedal BookWorm from Betelgeuse

23.09.04 Front Page

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