Autumn in New England

Autumn paints New England, staining hillsides, wrapped in red, garnishing the trail beneath my steps. The season spills like cabernet across a changing landscape; where the maples bleed their aging, amber leaves. I stroll amidst the falling flames, below the blazing treetops, the crisp air thick with life, that's soon to rest. I walk through spreading fire, listen to leaves, their stories rustling underfoot– As Autumn’s vivid, vibrant gift prepares to vanish from the view. And I  have never known another place, to burn so bright in red defiance, and I stand, here in the art of it– I breathe inside this portrait of an Autumn in New England. Humbled, though it hurts to hold what lingers and what leaves in just one breath– A quiet, crimson sorrow cloaked in boldest, brightest hues– where the branches bare their warmth in celebration– where the greens refuse to simply fade to gray. One last breath of leaf and smoke, one final stroll beneath the burning trees, another look before the fire dies in winter's restless wind. And when the reds lie blanketed in white upon the hillsides of New England, I'll think of Autumn’s color, and let go; Knowing that I had it– if only for a season.