There is a comfortableness that, every year, autumn unabashedly lingers in.
A place that is the opposite of an awkward in-between. A place where, in a perfectly timed dance, summer kisses us goodbye, fall twirls in and then decides it's ready to excitedly usher in winter for her solo.
But before she moves along, our lovely autumn, she graces us with muggy, bronzed, lunch-hours that run late;
crispy, preluding wisps of winter blues quick to beckon rosie cheeks come 4pm.
Every color of every moment of the day screams of tones so rich your attention is constantly snapping mind's shutter,
so that you fail to notice the tree that had it's jeweled treasures that morning
by noon is nearly bare.
Sinewy skeletor troops march into her beds; silky petals crying rotten tears as pillowy whites turn muddy
after jack opens his freezer doors.
It is a comfortableness that I experience every year and now, every year, strive to memorialize.
A comfortableness where everything looks like the scent of clove.
The comfort of fall.
An annual birth conceived in summer's exhaustion and raised perfectly in winter's assertively spicy yet delicately warming hearths.