Each time Autumn wraps its beauty around us, I feel my mortality more intensely. This is not a sad time—quite the opposite.
The color play of grandeur, the glory of maroons, golds, crimsons against crisp blue skies or soft cloudy greys evoke memories of tender life experiences. I am not disappointed.
The rustle of dying foliage and the whistle of winds is a tribute in symphony of summer now past and winter to be.
The odor of decaying leavery, burning piles of raked treasures, over ripened fruits and vegetables are like incense rising, an evening prayer of thanksgiving.
My feet crunch along a path of brown and cracked tree debris and I am once again seven years old.
And one day, I will rest in the mulch, soar with the smoke, and glow like the harvest moon…