Dear Autumn, I knew you’d come back. How I missed you. When summer pirouettes in her billowy, daffodilled, von voyage dress, you turn your watchers yellow with yearning. But you must not forget that your falling dance fills our moments with crimson flames of anticipation. Were you to never return, me and my poor fellow savages might think that our greatest moments had already happened. Yet our orange-cinnamon reunion each year reminds me that even greater moments tip toe in your cascading whispers.
Oh, Autumn, how just your name caresses my soul gently like a thousand waves at Coney Island. Then, when you devour my fears and rekindle my faith in tomorrow, I call you Fall. You are a two-sided woman and mother of children who cast themselves from the calamitous cliff of one-sidedness. God must have sent you to save us from ourselves.
When you’re away, I become a naughty boy, believing that there is nothing else for me. Just a few days ago, before your golden, sweatered trumpets shouted, Halleluja, I thought my opera had already been sung. I thought that moving the world, even for a fraction of a moment, was beyond my reach. Then, when the cowards officiously announced you, a ray of sunlight murmured in my ear, “Autumn leaves only to teach you, not that she doesn’t care, but that you must chase your dream as if you don’t care … about anything you might lose.”
I love you, Autumn. In as much as a man can love a season, I love you. Though I know you can’t stay long, you must forgive me for being a dog-eared poet and begging you to stay. I must make my mistakes and fall from my own branches. But, thanks to you, in the Byzantine music of the falling, I see the electric promise of the coming.
Now, let me go into the streets and watch you denude yourself like a wine-colored dancer intoxicated with living. Let me feel your cool breath on my cheeks, as I smile for all the great things that haven’t happened yet, and smirk for having thought I had actually lived the brunt of life.