This is a piece I wrote recently for my English class.

The cool cut of autumn; the leaves bloom to the colours of funerary flowers for summer. In the warm embrace of summer, the leaf’s hidden treasure lies golden, orange or scarlet. The sun of summer kissed the grasses and nurtured what now shakes a bowed heavy head of promise. This reminder of last days before winter’s chill pulls at the hearts of the mortals.

The autumn is a time of reaping the harvest of hard work of the summer. It is fraught with contemplation: for how will the resources be processed? The cool of the breezes on the wind are acknowledged for the first time, and now must be addressed directly. Clothes thicken sooner with each passing year, the sensitivity of acclimating to the cycle of endings. Staring up at the sprays of colour upon the limbs, hope still sways; for the final season of this world of is only beginning, and there is still time to share in accomplishment.
Days spent preparing for the days when the soil must be left to rest, give way to reflection. Has the labour of spring and summer produced promised yield? Seed weighted against the balance of labour and time spent on other projects becomes evident. Not enough time spent nurturing results in under developed seed, ill prepared for sustaining the future. In kind, the over managed seed grows weak without solid foundational stem. Revealed now in the spectre of possibility, that born of past efforts will either thrive or be devoured.

Autumn provides the opportunity of continuity. Traditions of recipes are made together and passed down from past to future. Grandmother becomes a guest at mother’s house that nurtures daughter. Each add a flavour of their own to the mixing bowl and remain present long after their regrets. In turn grandmother passes her memories of grandmother to introduce the departed to the new. The preserves endure shelved for the future needs of support in cold dark days.

Houses spill with the scents of birds roasting, intermixed with the heavily spiced gourd pies. The fragrances bring the mind to memories of old time festivities surrounded by the family. Lists form for our own celebrations; the e’er changing face of the guest lists fixes the memories to annuity. For each year brings its own yield of fragments that build into the self the actions of those around them. Old guests are replaced by the new in the same cycle of renewal found in the land. Ever ending and beginning, what was becomes what is and what can be.

Nights grow darker and longer as the ground begins each day with frosty shimmer. The veneer of night vapour once soft and supple in the morning now wakes stiff and moves with sound. Discarded leaves swirl into piles in depressions; their decomposition permeating the moist air with earthen depth. Children buzz around dreaming of which masks they will don when the morrow falls to them. Those that make the best choices will be given accolades; a reflection often found from the effort of elders. Some dream of becoming heroes, some dream of instilling fear and others fall into the divide. Still all are beckoned forward by the confection reward of the Jack O’ Lantern.

In the woods the hunter’s listen for the bugles of elk yearning for comfort. They meet the edge of death by mixing their genes into the gifts of spring. The forest painted with the colours of wisdom, deceit and desire mirrors the marriage between the elk; they plan for the future through a relationship of infidelity. Even if the love between the elk were to grow, the culture of the forest can not shelter that which goes against itself. With many partners they ensure their own success within confines, yet lose the power to follow their own hearts. Amongst the same wood, the bear seeks final sustinance whilst seeking the final place it will rest its head and be buried. The bear that has spent time wisely has experienced for itself the richness of life, and is ready to rest its head solemnly. The worried bear is wont for a greater measure of days. Its own preoccupations led it from the path, and now fears the fold of regret.

Mists of fog hover between night and morning, bridging end and beginning. They obscure the landscape of what is soon to be clearly seen. The brambles are softened, and the distant only accessible in thought. Fore the chill of ending becomes lost in the thickness of now, the rising sun can not be tamed from its purpose.

Published by Richtig Haus

Haus of Art & Innovation. A place to find art, poetry, comedy, and free thought.

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