There's something sweet and sad about how Fall writes a memoir of its passing in leaf language.
Like the
hand prints in cave paintings, the leaves leave an indelible imprint, a memoir, a
recordatorio of their passing.
It's almost as if the leaves knew that their organic form becomes dust but that by sketching themselves on the pavement, they achieve momentary eternity.
Their ghostly outlines are heartbreaking in their perfection, in their promise.
I always thought New England falls were the best. But I have to say that Fall in Ohio is just as breathtaking.
As winter approaches, colors merge and greens and oranges and yellows blend into browns and purples and blacks.
Soon, the feast of colors will be over and we'll face the return of the long, long winter.
There's something sweet and sad about how Fall writes a memoir of its passing in leaf language.
Like the hand prints in cave paintings, the leaves leave an indelible imprint, a memoir, a recordatorio of their passing.
It's almost as if the leaves knew that their organic form becomes dust but that by sketching themselves on the pavement, they achieve momentary eternity.
Their ghostly outlines are heartbreaking in their perfection, in their promise.
I always thought New England falls were the best. But I have to say that Fall in Ohio is just as breathtaking.
As winter approaches, colors merge and greens and oranges and yellows blend into browns and purples and blacks.
Soon, the feast of colors will be over and we'll face the return of the long, long winter.
2 comments:
Oh, the hill. I recognize those trees. Sigh.
And they remember you. You're almost half way to being back!
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