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When I was growing up, we did not have trees in our yard. We lived on the prairies, where trees grew only if you planted and nourished them. If money was scarce, you did without trees, or you did the next best thing, like we children did; you enjoyed the neighbours’ trees, or went to the park. We had a park a few blocks from our place, so it was there you would find us, playing in the shade of those wonderful old trees. And it was especially enjoyable in the autumn when the leaves had fallen. How delightful to be able to roll around in, and bury ourselves in the piles of crackling leaves. Even now I enjoy walking through crispy autumn leaves.
Autumn. Even the word conjures up pleasant pictures in my mind. The poplar, aspen, and birch trees exchange their summer attire for a wardrobe of gold, orange, and brown; and the underbrush looks like a multicolored plush carpet. The air, fresh and clean after a rain, has a nip to it.
. . .
Is that melancholy that I feel in the air? Autumn, don't be sad. Listen to me, Autumn. Hold your chin up. You are the most splendid time of the year. You break your neck to radiate your own kind of beauty. You throw your whole being into spilling all the flowers you can, in a last attempt to bring Summer to a satisfactory end. You are Summer's glorious sister . Take her hand. Tell her that she has had her turn. Help ease her out. Yes, I know that Summer is unwilling to give up her luxurious blossoms and intoxication smells, her happy sounds of children splashing in pools or running in the park. I know she doesn't want to leave, but she must; so Autumn, do your best to ease her out and prepare us for Big Brother, Winter.
What's that I see? Are those tears in your eyes this morning, Autumn? Oh no! Not tears. It's fog over the valley…Wait! Great! Now you are smiling, Autumn. You got up this morning, breathing out the richness of the sunshine. Into my nostrils waft the sweet smells of ripening fruit on the trees and the pungent, but pleasant odors of freshly mown grass. My eyes drift across to the mountainside where the trees, once dressed in their many shades of green have now entered their dressing room to adorn their glorious autumn attire of brown, yellow, red, orange, oh yes, and of green, too, but a deeper, richer green.
I gaze out the window, reveling in all I see. I look up. In the clear blue sky I notice several V-shaped flight formations of Canada Geese, on their way south for the winter. My ears are filled with their cacophonous honking. Lowering my eyes as a movement attracts my attention, I chuckle at the squirrels scampering up and down the trees in my backyard, with nuts and acorns stuffed in their cheeks, busy storing their supply for the winter. The bamboo stocks with their flowers in full bloom, wave in the breeze—hundreds of wild honey bees singing their melodious tune. I venture out to stand underneath the bush, just listening.
I love this Autumn time of year. It brings with it its glorious gear:
flowers splendid in all their glory. How they love to tell their story.
On grassy meadows, cattle graze. In stifling heat they idly laze.
And then an Autumn breeze floats by, cooling backs, dispersing flies.
The breeze comes whispering through the trees, tickling birds, caressing bees.
It ambles through the bush and flowers, and plays among the leafy bowers.
The Autumn breeze wafts over fields. To its mild touch the corn stalk yields.
The flowers in the gardens smile to feel the Autumn breeze awhile.
Autumn, how I love you!
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