The Journal of Prolix Footle

Glorious Lady Fall, reluctant mistress of the hoary old man, has returned to the Rural Wastelands. She’s come to gently soothe the fevered brow of frantic, fervid Summer with her cool hands, her healing touch. The winds carry her whispered promises – promises of rest and relaxation, and of rejuvenating slumber safe under the icy mantle of Winter.

She has arrived quietly, modestly, almost unnoticed. But she can go unseen, overlooked, for only a few fleeting moments, a brief, languid span for her to relish her arrival, to recognize herself in the nodding sunflowers heavy with seed, in the rich acorns on the ground and fragrant, heady scents of the harvest. Soon – shyly, almost unwillingly – she’ll reveal herself; her breath, sweet with the crisp tang of fresh cider; her lips, rouged a magnificent red, the color of the last plump tomato, ripe but hidden, lurking, longing to be discovered; her hair, a gently swaying orange-gold, the color of low-slung sunlight, the color of a thousand ripe, radiant, pumpkins, of the harvest moon; her eyes, flashing, fiery, the unnerving combination of summer’s gilded warmth and winter’s frozen wrath.

As always, she came with brush in hand. The landscape bears her first tentative, hesitant strokes, the first chaste kisses of her autumnal palette. Later, seemingly in the wink of an eye, she’ll paint with abandon, spreading festive, fleeting fall color across the horizon. But for now she is restrained, with a hint of crimson, a stroke of bittersweet, the merest daub of ochre.

I find myself welcoming her, even more so that I would normally. The relaxation inherent in the rustling leaves, the soothing balm of leafsmoke in the air, the gentle touch of the first breath of fall against my cheek appeal to me especially this year. Perhaps it’s the potential for closure, or perhaps it’s the possibility of change and renewal heralded by this gracious lady. Perhaps I shouln’t think so much, and instead should just… enjoy.