Leaves are falling. The sap is finished running. Flowers fade — red, green, yellow, purple falling into brittle brown.
Each season reflects the eternal motion of the seasons we sense within ourselves. Over a lifetime we move from the temporary wrinkles of the newborn babe to the well-worn lines and wrinkles of aging. We love to look at babies; old folks not so much.
In 1857 Adalbert Stifter pondered this in Der Nachsommer (The Post-Summer) published in English under the title Indian Summer:
“Great beauty and youth capture our attention, excite a deep pleasure; however, why shouldn’t our souls gaze at a countenance over which the years have passed? Isn’t there a story there, one unknown, full of pain or beauty, which pours its reflection into the features, a story we can read with some compassion or at least get a slight hint of its meaning? The young point toward the future; the old tell of a past.”
Fall is the favorite time for many of us. At my age, I no longer wonder why.
- Gordon C. Stewart, Chaska, MN 55318
Views from the Edge 
Fall brought my first (and last) effort at poetry, at age 8. I’m not sure line breaks will work, but:
My favorite season of the year is fall,
Falling leaves, bare trees and all,
No bees to sting, no biting ants,
But coats and hats, and big snow pants.
Obviously, late fall. 😅
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Wow! You should have kept it up. Did Mrs. Martino dissuade you from doing more? -:)
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I’m not really sure. I think I’m just not creative– a decent-ish editor 😉 but not a writer. Same for music, I wrote one mediocre two-voice canon, could not even do three voices. And it was useless as the basis for improv, unless some modern composer, desirous of imitating Bach, did it as a challenge.
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Who knows? You may yet get discovered!
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