We walk like thieves through sunlight and shadows, attempting to pickpocket the colours temporarily brightening our surroundings. Shades of burgundy, fuchsia, and tangerine. More than yellow and orange. Too soon this will be gone.
It is like this each October. Random flowers still trying. Windblown leaves over cracked asphalt, in days soon to be wrinkled and weary brown, and then unnoticeable.
It’s only natural.
Dew is soupy on the windshield in the morning, and soon we shall see our breath.
The aura of Autumn; cooler breezes; short days, and those shorter yet to come.
We move briskly through this season, trying to keep up with the changes, but our soul wants to slow, to even find the stillness we avoid in hectic summers.
We seek comfort in woolly sweaters and the textures of our domain. The scarves and gloves that have been hiding at the back of the closet suddenly appear on the bureau, as if waiting to be pressed into action. We want to enjoy the present, but, habitually, fear the harsh winter ahead. It always is.
Within our homes we organize, knowing we will spend more time inside.
It is nesting. It’s natural. It is our way. We seek familiarity.
Even the music we listen to takes on a different tone. We react, or relate, to more contemplative lyrics, find melody in varied time signatures, or recall certain movements that harbour feelings of family, and justice, and togetherness. Even if we feel alone.
Days move with the voracity of a poem, and we hunger for a place, a person, or a thing.
Something.
Outside trees shed their leaves, and birds say farewell as they follow familiar routes. Naturally.
It is time, and we watch it fly by.
This is us. This is now.
We look around, and we look ahead.
© 2017 j.g. lewis
