weisserwatercolours

Autumn.  The very word speaks in tones that touch something deep and still.  In my youth it was an invigorating Season, full of piles of leaves we’d shape into forts or rooms.  The air would be tinted with a hint of smoke, the chill of it pinking my ear lobes and rouging my cheek. Teachers would begin rehearsing things for Christmas.  There was an unspoken wonder over feeling the days shorten, and a little thrill over seeking out a forgotten, yet familiar scarf and hat.  Underneath was an anticipation over when the first snowflakes would drift down, hoping it would be during waking hours–and then came the day when the shout of a classmate interrupted a math or geography lesson– “Look!  It’s SNOWING!” , followed by a crush of bodies as we pressed against the windows, marvelling, wishing it would just keep going until there was nothing for it but to hunt in the attic for our sleds.

And now?  I’m in the Autumn of my life.  Who knows, but maybe even the Winter.  The Season is now pensive, thoughtful.  There’s a contemplative quality watching the last of our Red Maple’s orange hands let go and join the others.  One thinks of endings more than beginnings–pasts more than futures.  But the sweetness if anything,  is made the more complex–like a well-mulled cider–for Autumn is made for memories– for kicking through the remains of the Summer and recalling Seasons long gone, while hoping for one or two more . . .

"Autumn Wood"