There's so many different reasons why I enjoy autumn so very much.
But since I recently wrote a little poem-y bit on the matter, I'll let it do the explaining.
Fall is already here.
I've been trying to ignore its familiar scent carried on a cool breeze for weeks.
The warm cool scent of autumn is one I relish.
Bearing promises of beauty and temperate weather. Of the last green grass outlined with bright leaves, contrasted by the grey blue sky.
It's like a good cup of tea and a sweater that could tell tales all it's own.
It's like apple cider, fresh and invigorating.
Fall is the seasonal equivalent of night.
When inspiration comes and pours out words.
When everything is possible, adventure is imaginable, when dreams become real.
When magic floats on the wind a new music pushes through my veins.
It's when the creative, the old-souls, come alive.
When myth and legend rise from the ground.
When death and life collide.
When words spring from pens and leap off pages.
When sleeping is waking and the night starts early and the days are breaking.
Autumn is the white mountains and orange leaf strewn streets.
It's a between worlds.
Not sleeping, nor waking.
Not summer nor winter, nor the same rebirth as spring.
Fall is a phoenix. Going out with a blaze of orange and from itself comes new life.
Fall is the epitome of endings: just beginnings wrapped in strange packages.
Fall is a perfect, crisp, amalgamation of life.
