There is a new chill to the fall air where I live. There is also an aroma and an expectation. The air has the crispy fragrance of dried leaves coupled with a peppery component of organic sweetness. Even the gentlest of breezes send showers of leaves to the ground in a russel of clicks and crunches.
I remember the scent and sound from childhood when jumping into huge piles of raked leaves. The expectation is that it will get colder for color is the harbinger of frost and winter.
© Quiet Musings – Rolland G. Smith
I now know why we call them leaves,
too soon they fall when frosted thieves
Lure their green to red and gold
in colors soft and dazzling bold.
Leaves drop from cold and sometimes breeze
to land beside the shrubs and trees,
Drifting, pillowed to the ground
in crinkling, crackling, scrunching sound.
O leaves of branch and bush, behold!
Your service lasts despite the cold,
Quilting warmth for creatures low,
beneath the ground, before the snow.
Some leaves do sail to lawns serene
where children’s smiles can be seen
Waiting for the rake and pile
to leap upon and lie awhile.
But soon the crumpled stems and flake
are coaxed in rows for match to make
A downy flame and spire smoke,
incense of honor to the oak.
Then barren trees stand naked, strong,
to slice the wind of winter’s song,
By leaning forth from bending blow,
then snapping, weaving to and fro.
I know there is a message here,
where trees with leaves at end of year
Must molt their husk of leafy sheen
for other seasons to be seen.
Yet trees and man are oft alike:
In time each sheds their aging haik;
What's left in silhouette pristine
is life renewed in spirit green.