When I was a kid, autumn was magic (any season was, for that matter). I haven’t lost the wonder in the brilliance of those trees turning from green to red, nor of the spark of delight when I kick up browned leaves under my feet as I walk through the street. Discarded leaves smell like earth and mold. Flower blooms hang on for dear life through maybe two more days. I realize it’s time to wear my gloves again as the morning chill reaches into my fingers.
I wrote this poem when I was young, I know there’s more to it, but this is all I can remember:
“Autumn leaves drifting, drifting down
From tall trees towering high
Onto soft beds of brown
Underneath the clear blue sky.”