Autumn. It’s a fascinating time of the year, now that I’m better with slightly colder temperatures. It’s a strange season referred to as both autumn and fall. I mean, which other season gets this distinction? Well I guess you could say winter could be renamed as [insert-swearword-of-choice]COLD. But, I digress.
There’s the unmistakable (and disgusting) promotion of pumpkin spice lattes ( apparently abbreviated to PSL) and other abominable sweet pumpkin themes. The twelve-year-old in me gets excited for Halloween following years of birthday parties that pretended to be costume parties. The colours paint a beautiful picture. Especially, in the waning golden hours of sunset, reflected on the glass windows of buildings (and sometimes trees, yes). And contrasting this to the monsoon season back home, when petrichor brought forth a sense of invigorating joy and yet dread as the roads and streets flood every single year. Many lunch time conversations have centered around the inefficiency of rainwater management and seasonal illnessess. Armed with a box of Samahan and other herbal concoctions amma and thatha have given me, it’s time to get through the autumn/winter ’15 collection of falling sick. Just like fashion themes of each year.
The fall colours – it is a taunting sight, as if all the prettiness could push away the impending cold of winters. This autumn has been particularly fun – exploring new spaces and then, curling up with a book, tea made just the way I like and a fluffy throw for the warmth. I’ve found a renewed love for the written word – both in the actual writing and reading of it. There’s the comfort of good, old friends and getting back into a rhythm of doing stupid things with them.
Among autumnal treks, it was time to say goodbye to the yellow tree that I had found. A tree that, for a seemingly long instant, transported me into a state of bliss and awe. Perhaps it was one of those acute moments of inspiration during which I should have captured my musings. This time when I visited it, the leaves had fallen, as if in deference to the goodbyes to be said.
I follow the fallen leaves,
flecks of ash against the orange
I hear the stories of stolen summers
among the burnt wood whispers.
I hold on – a siesta in the sunlight remaining
looking for telltale signs
and patterns in the fall.
Broken leaves have stories to tell