Autumn leaves, as flat gummy bears, disco danced in a wild wind, tapping out a beat, going all out. As their skyward dance-off went on, a few would liberate themselves to twirl-spin in the ambient rays of sunrise. Cool air kissed my face as I tucked it deeper into my wrapped scarf, into its woolen folds. Before taking to the tree lined avenue, on seeing the rising puffs of my breath, I wound it not once, nor twice, yet thrice until only my eyes peeked out. In one slow blink, early mist softened, standing as iron centurions, the gates rose from the road verges ahead.

September 20, 2025.

 

Rose and gold fluttered down amid eventide’s car glow, reflecting headlamps approach, reflecting in tail lights homeward bound. It was autumn in the city, when country pumpkins filled the stores, when cooler nights brought out woolen hats, and rain conjured umbrellas, such light rain as transitory freckle-stars painting puddles all around.

September 18, 2025.

 

Dead leaves swarmed as Machiavellian cabal, fervent in the first foment of winter. As eager accomplice wind was sangfroid, patient, observing, selecting the time most sublime to savour a spot of obloquy. What a delicious coup! What sweet cultural sedition! Encipher true order, subvert expectations, observe a state of meticulous alertness! Between leaves, wind and chill it was impossible to explain the instinct all betook for caution. For time out of mind not a soul could recall a case of late fall so sinister.

May 14, 2025.

 

Autumnal rain was summer's envelope, sealing her safely in until her time returned. Do not open until mid June sings. Do not open until mid June stretches her wings. Quenched forest earth opened wide brown arms. Quenched trees took their fill. Fish swam in liberated arcs, sensing the cleaner flow. Though cooler were the promised days, announced by the glossy reds and golds above, the drumming of the raindrops was heart-music far and wide.

April 11, 2025.

 

A pumpkin sun pride-inhaled the sweet autumnal air. To the observant eye it did swell full-large. Its rays were radiant smiles indeed, alighting as golden butterflies that believed us the best of blooms. What would the red-gold leaves be without its blessed light? How could they be painted so gay, so warm, so bright? Early though it was, the day opened up as a highway heading beyond sunset and starry night.    

April 25, 2025.

 

As if in mirror-call to the blooms of sister spring, autumn blushed her hearth-full hues. Robust greens bowed to these most placid of flames, these tree born butterfly wings.

February 26, 2025.

 

Upon that well-worn road, came the shadows of blushed leaves. As an old gramophone needle, jogging up and down, vibrating with sombre happiness, they had a story to tell. Perhaps they told it already, whispering it into a whiskey wind.

February 26, 2025.

 

A gaiety of autumn spun in each tousled gusty-giggle. Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la! Oh, how the golden hues did laugh out loud. The breeze herself told a tale of season's pass, of earthen aromas and cool merriment's jaunt. Upon the boughs the chestnuts swelled. The field coddled the winter squash did fatten. Mind not frosty day's approach, yet greet the change with slumber's downy sigh.

January 19, 2025.

 

Have you ever watched an autumn leaf from the window of a high-rise? For though most go with gravity, there are some unready to find their final resting place. For those intrepid wanders an airborne rollercoaster ride awaits. For above the trees, alongside the migrant birds, they pirouette in unapologetic grace. If this is their last ride, why-ever not make it a long and sweet party?

November 4, 2024.

 

Though winter’s breath was in the air, autumn remained in full command of her stage. From the hymn of reds and golds above, to the growing carpet of chattering leaves at foot, it was the start of the season of hearth and home.

October 3, 2024.

 

As if in response to winter's song, autumn had spun a garland blanket of warmest seasonal hues. Upon the canvas of those reds, yellows and browns, it was easy to see our pumpkin days and mid-winter gatherings.

October 3, 2024.

 

Even as the leaves fell, the bonny scarlets, golds and browns, I saw them as dirty fragments and frozen beneath wintery ice. In the still warm air, they fall as feathers do, gliding a merry dance upon unseen currents. How very bright they are, how very merry and blithe. Perhaps their blindness is a gift, a chance to enjoy the moment's happenings.

October 3, 2024.

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Creative Writing on Autumn --- by Angela Abraham, Descriptionari.com

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