I feel the end of summer drawing near. The sun leaves me sooner at the end of the day that has become shorter, more somber, as the hot air cools, the humidity dries. The crisp touch across my cheek is welcome, but the early nights are not. I will miss the bright evenings, the sun’s warm gaze into my living room until half past 8 and even 9. Now it retreats and begins to linger at another’s far south from this place. It’s philandering ways I’ve come to accept, but still it does not ease the bitter twang of envy and sorrow when it begins to drift away.
There will be another spring, a relieved embrace when he knocks upon my window with that glowing grin upon his vibrant face. Until then, I settle into the cold and prepare for winter’s icy approach. The leaves do not turn gold and maroon, orange and tan in this town. Sometimes, they do not even fall. Though the air remains warm, I know that winter is only a few steps away from our reach. It arrives when we least expect it, trapping us inside, wrapped in blankets and sipping hot tea to warm our shivering souls.
Until that day falls, we make do with autumn, her ghoulish celebrations and her family affairs. Her beauty is the golden light which kisses the trees in the early evening, but this she gradually pulls away and succumbs to the bright stars above her bohemian head. We tolerate her whimsical nature, those tempestuous mood swings where she runs hot and cold. I am cut from her cloth, the flitting fish born in her rising crown, tempered by the divides of her duality. Her frigid touch shields me from her burning fires, crisp, singed leaves spiraling through ashen smoke, though I am not immune to the brevity of her hours – I do not embrace the darkening afternoons when the sun ducks out of work early by 5. There, autumn fails me, where I struggle against her waning current and curse her passive sighs.
– Written by Miss A on August 27, 2012