Ode to Fall

Memories of lives frozen and imagined march across the gentle width of entities far simpler and far above, refusing to look down on those beneath, only into the eyes and hearts of those seen equal and important to all. Expressions of clouds laugh and stare, the grim and dead, the alive and the celebrated all share soft interpretations and softer whites, and even friendlier shadows. Within the smile of the unfamiliar self is perceived, and reminds of flows of change, they rearrange into mustaches and lips, of broken bits and reaching fingers, hoping to caress, but too often interpreted as claws of mischief, and fear. They dance and wander, begging for company, praying for those to join them on the journey over tiers and piers, the fallen and the risen, promising a safe return around the same time of departure.

Breaths of Fall, sweep through the dank and humid, the labored and tired, sweat dries as vapors of relief cleanse through brisk wind and gusts of comfort, whispering to never be afraid. In it's yearly hymn of release and reminder, of days ahead, where we must warm ourselves and others around us, for the blisters of Summer are soothed by the revival from the steady and drooping, what leaves follow and forge the foliage will forever be, the whisper asks to mourn not the tree.

Behind screens and mist, beyond rooftops and hilltops and manicured fields and the unkempt, oaks and pines join in rhymes of taunts and dares to wander and climb to visit their prayer. For it is all silent, and unexplained, and it all constantly reminds, it needs not to, and the furious may argue, and draw, and explain, and frustrate themselves as they try to control, what cannot be kept and cannot be explained correctly by the tongue of it's shepherds, who dwell within a gift they tend.

Swift gusts roll over the hills, and the fields, through the leaves and the trees, enticing all affected, on behalf of those who cannot speak, as they rush through open windows, waking children and adults alike, without a shake or alarm, nostrils widen and relax, only to huff and puff, welcoming and hoping the rush will come back. It's not too this, nor is it not too that, we marvel in perfection of the day and the month, knowing the bitter is ahead and the party is behind us, but for a moment we all bask in the perfection of being somewhere between, the morning and night, the dull and the excited, what is planned and what is random, but the degrees of these are not overwhelming, they are accepted, and will leave as they came, abruptly and unannounced, only to return another day.