the season of fall - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
In this season of fall, the breeze has a way of moving my hair, of tousling it into buoyant curls. It carries with it the fragrance of earth, soft after the washing of the rain and a sweet and steady sense of joy. And as it dances with the canopies of flame, it alights both eyes and soul, yet more as the feeling of a mother's lullaby, a comforting delight.
These embryonic oaks lay upon the grass, their browns a gift to the eyes. I could watch them a while, these acorns, let this moment of bliss extend as much as the light is spreading over the horizon... but the path wends onwards and there is much journeying ahead.
The air is so cold yet the trees are on fire. I smile up at the inferno above my head. Scarlet and gold licks at the blue sky, no rain clouds today. The chill in the post-dawn air is the first hint that winter isn't far behind. Then these trees will stand naked, bereft of their color. But for now they line the avenue and my walk to school is more vibrant than any carnival parade. I am torn between keeping my eyes high to watch for the falling leaves dancing their way to the carpeted ground, or looking down to spy the crunchy ones. I love to step on them, I guess I'm still a kid at heart. Given half a chance I still jump in puddles too, just not when my friends are looking.
Only weeks ago the air was warm and the streets in the wide avenue were deep summer green, the whispering rustle of the leaves only audible once the daytime traffic petered to an almost stop. Now they are tinged with red and gold; not yet deserting their lofty branches in the gusts that penetrate the fabric of my jacket. It won't be long before I set off for work in the dark and return in the dark, my only light the artificial glow of the fluorescent tube above my desk. Already I long for the first warm rays of the spring, wishing the fall and winter was already a faded memory.
As the days wane, the nights close in and the trees don their vibrant hues, a chill creeps into the air. Not the bite of wintry blusters, but just a nip to let us know a new season is at hand. The wide avenue is lit by the first rays of the day, shining through a thin layer of grey cloud like a stain glass window. No more are the trees their virescent hues of spring and summer, but are scarlets and gold. In just a few weeks they will stand naked in the frozen air, bereft of their gaiety. Already the usual grey of the concrete sidewalk is adorned with their transient beauty. As I walk to the bus stop in my black woollen coat, I deliberately tread on each one to hear the crunch. Just ahead a leaf tumbles from it's weary branch, it twists and rocks as it falls through the almost still air. I pause to listen for the sound it makes as it joins it's brethren on the ground, but it is lost in the drone of the traffic.
I know the season has become fall when the leaves on the cherry trees blush pink or gold. These hues are better than prozac for me. It means the harshness of the summer sun is dying and although I will still mostly travel by night - the daytime won't be such a hazard. The air isn't yet chilled, often the heat lingers until well into October, an "Indian summer" my mother used to say. The shortening days mean longer nights, more time to loot undercover, to bring back goods unseen. It also means colder nights and frigid floors in the old bank, but I'd rather that than the heat of August. I have more clothes than anyone could ever use in a lifetime and all of them black. I can add layers and wear squall jackets, in the heaviest downpours, the ones where you can't see even a yard in front of you, I stay home like everyone else. Getting your kit drenched is just senseless.
The intermittent rain and the sunshine with it's residue of summer intensity swells the apples in the orchard. As the green crop tinges red we know that fall has arrived. We can almost taste the pies and crumbles as we stride between the trees in rubber boots and raincoats. The apples are so much sweeter fresh off the tree, like biting into a dew drop, albeit a crunchy one.
An earthen aroma and softer light, fog and swirling leaves, cool air and wetter ground - the season of fall wraps around my senses like a well worn glove as I cycle to the animal shelter for my Saturday morning shift. On these frigid mornings beads jewel the grass, which has slowed it's growth to almost a stop. The breeze blows the hair around my face and my fingers are numbing over the handle bars. My breath rises in steady puffs, that in a few hours won't be visible anymore, it's not winter after all. As I pass a neighbours yard with a few pumpkins growing fat and orange, my mind wonders to Halloween.
The early fall has passed, it must be well into November now. The skies have been low and grey these past few days, the rain has fallen as thick as any I've ever seen. I know there has been a significant change when I notice things that have been out of mind since the previous winter. I notice the air; it is cold, drawing the heat from my skin and leaving me even paler than before. I notice each breath I take; the moisture from my lungs rising in thick plumes before me with each exhale. I notice that every drop of rain has the icy kiss of winter, a promise of the season the follow. And whilst the late fall and winter will bring harshness, I embrace it. Without the sun I can move with greater ease, the freedom is almost intoxicating,
When the leaves turn red, the air chills and the light becomes watery and pale, I fold my summer clothes and drag out the thick sweaters and jeans. I jog for longer now that the oppressive heat of the summer has ebbed and look forward to the winter, snow-shoeing and skiing. But I never wish the fall away, I savour and delight in it. My brothers and I used to make piles iridescent leaves to jump in and throw above our heads. We were so disappointed when it rained and they all went soggy. Now we all have jobs, we see each other less, but every fall we go for a walk through the park to reminisce.
Crimson as the roses on the tomb of my beloved; golden as her hair that tumbled in loose curl; brown as her eyes; the leaves tumble from the weary boughs in the graveyard. Each one falls as if plucked by His invisible hand. Their delicate glide to the frosty earth below is fleeting, beautiful in that moment and then gone. No dirt can be seen peeking though their overlapping myriad of shape and color. As I tread they crunch beneath my army issue boot. It should have been me down there, returned to the land, and her up here in this God given day. I was the one in the line of fire and she was the one baking cookies at home.
I've read a lot of beautiful poetry about the fall, but I think I'm just kinda a "bah-humbug" sort of person. Here's what fall means to me; shorter days, steady rain, the start of school, colder air, no descent snow, less salads, more heavy food and the start of the flu season. The leaves lie sodden on the ground as slippery as ice. Sure they were pretty for a few days, now they're just a mess to be cleaned up. It's either hot in the sun or freezing in the shade so you're uncomfortable whatever you wear. I swear the only thing that get's me though it is pumpkin pie.
Every fall I have the same thought. The pumpkins in the field look ridiculous. It's like somebody spent the night arranging them there. Large orange fruit as big as my head growing on these vines spread over the mud just blows me away.
The avenue was gilded with gold yet the leaves hadn't yet started to fall. Jenny raised her eyes to the garland above that was so stark against the cloudless sky. It was picture book perfect. Perhaps tomorrow there would be some scattered over the sidewalk, hiding some of the grey. That was truly her favourite time, she walked over them like a celebrity to her own movie premier, her held high and her eyes higher. She sucked in the air, how she'd missed the moistness after the dry August heat. She could wear her woollen coats and boots right to her knees. She was the queen of her own life and the trees stood as if dressed for her coronation. The street lamps sent down a soft glow and the hum of the city around her was better than an orchestra. This was the start of the rest of her life, she could feel it.