That Certain Sensation of Fall

Fall is an oversimplification, I think.  What is more profound and specific than that perfect feeling of subtle grit and immersive depth than fall?  How can a whole season capture that infinitesimal glimpse into- what?  What is that sensation of brilliance that overpowers one who tastes it?  I think it’s a glimpse at something, something huge, maybe Grace or maybe bigger.  But I don’t know, and so can none, while life remains as property.  How is something so hugely minuscule a season?  Fall isn’t about leaves or pumpkins, apples or turkey. It is, instead, those little things that one cannot hope to ever capture in so few words.  Water and witches, air and avarice, ice and innocence, these are the few things and so many more, they that capture a telling smile of the world, as a fay bound to vanish.  Would one consider the calm before a storm to be Spring?  It is as such that the oversimplification, and a dire comedy at that, overflows into these other symbols.  A storm brewing has nothing on that quiet and ear-shattering scream of it, something like a terror in the night, the call of the first birds of spring, something desperate and unholy, calm and virtuous.  As a blood splatter to a crime scene, the beauty and the newness of it all, the first leaves on the ground, that coral that you can’t find anywhere else, that is just a symptom of that plunge into darkness, or this great, unbreakable, perhaps too unbreakable shadow that adds a faint sense of disproportion to our lives, because how can something so perfect exist in a world so terrible? How can a beacon of light be so clear through that muddy pond of darkness in our lives?  But it persists, as it does.  And so every year it continues, as though newly discovered, but to complete it would be tragedy, to delete it the same.