Eucalyptus trees browning, their dusty perfume filling sunny days with spicy grace.
A midday sprinkle still lets the sun shine between its droplets. Warm days, chilly nights.
Leaves dancing, cart wheeling, drawn by invisible string, skipping along the crosswalk.
Elderly man smoking a pipe, cold afternoon sun illuminating his closed lids and upturned face, a stream of white swirling about his nose.
Golden leaves, telling a story of death and hibernation, preparing for colder days.
Big hill, once brown, graced with a Sunday morning rain. The next morning, dormant grass seeds take root, shooting skyward to that pale yellow sun.
You and me, mittened hands, brown shoes, scarves blowing…meeting…interlocking their frayed edges. Like our hearts, growing together.
Something pumpkin, spiced, warm, and diced…those warm flavors our taste buds have been craving since basil left the farmer’s market.
Cold wind, a bitter friend, beckons a menacing finger at his confidant Winter. “It’s your time now,” he seems to say.
Your deep arm chair, my wool blanket, your fleece socks, my wax candles. Illuminating the night and inviting this change of seasons. Warmth can be found in many places.