I
have become somewhat obsessed with the changing of the trees. They seem to hold
within them precious metal, a colour that
will soon burn from green to gold. I like how the autumn sun finds its way
through the leaves, how soft light fractures and falls onto trails that guide
my wandering feet.
The
air has a bite of change to it. I can feel the coming winter in the breeze, in
the slow shedding embers that drift from exposed branches. I can see its
arrival by the clouds that my breath makes, formless shapes that disperse with
each exhale.
Isn’t
it funny how life can be beautiful before it fades? For there is a beauty in
this kind of death. A defiance, too. Nothing goes gently, not without a display
or a spectacle to prove that it existed, it was here.
I
have a fascination with autumn light and the way it makes things smoulder. How
it presses against the skin like a kiss, as delicate as gold leaf. How it infuses and brings colours into existence –
hues of auburn in brown hair, streaks of amber in hazel eyes. It leaves a mark,
staining the ground with intricate lace as it filters through the trees. The
caress of golden hour is a welcome one.
Above,
the sky is cobalt blue. Soon, the sun will begin its descent to make room for
the stars and moon. I’ve always thought that you could determine a season by
the temperature of the sky. Is it the warmth of summer, with shades of subtle
pastel? Or the icy expanse of winter, white hues that always give way to an impenetrable
grey?
But
at this moment, I can’t help but wonder.
How can the sky be cold when everything
underneath it is on fire?
