Autumn is overwhelming. I hug every tree for being such an artist, kiss every blushing leaf for its existence.
In these, my favorite months, I become Autumn; I am the crisping air, the prickling grass, the Orion sky.
I am the cartenoid, the fireplace, the whirling wind that sticks to your hair and tickles your wrists.
I am the pang of home, the green overcoat, the prized art that Nature hangs on her mantleplace.
I remember, two years ago, when one by one the trees caught the fire of Autumn, and the fire spread, jumping from tree to tree, until the entire neighborhood was set ablaze.
As I crunch, crunched down Leonard Street, I begged of Autumn to take me in her arms as her own.
-by Laur Fisher
