Fall is Something of Change

My friend mentioned she was sad to see the leaves drop. She said this as if the shedding oak trees were a disgrace to her. As if their nakedness wasn’t breathtaking in the eyes of an artist. What might she think of the birds that molt so they may heal their wounds? I reckon she is afraid of change.

I tell her they are beautiful with their orange elegance, descending upon the ground in a waltz, how the air twirls them and delicately lets them go, scattering them across the grass and streets. They are the stars of autumn, yet all she notices are the overcast clouds. The ghostly frost that blankets the green earth of summer: the season that claims her heart. I reckon she is afraid of change.

She remarks on the pride of the pines and how they refuse to succumb to the cold—adoring their perseverance and continued presence in the plight chill of fall. They, too, drop piles of ginger needles under their bodies. Perhaps if she knew of their patience, she would participate in their pilgrimage to peace. I reckon she is afraid of change.

Her roots have faded stunningly, yet she gazes at the girl in the river and claims she is that of dirt. However, the mud means life, protecting the frogs as they hibernate, submerging stones so they don’t spree, and vigorously nursing the willows so they may soak their nutrients to return in spring. We watch the water pass, but I can no longer dip my toes like we had months ago. I say to her, she is the silver lining of the ripples along the poking rocks. To her, though, silver means aging. I reckon she is afraid of change.

This is her last fall as a girl. No more jumping into clumps of leaves, no more childish excitement for running around in puffy jackets, or decorating the house with wonderful wreaths of various flowers. She is no longer free of responsibilities that linger closer to the upcoming months. This season is the graduation of her childhood. She weeps; I am not ready for winter. I ask her to enjoy what is left of her youth. Cover her bed with heavy quilts so she does not suffer through the night. Listen to the wind whistle and smell the tinges of cider. She should not harp on the shift in colors but rather appreciate them while its final days last. She is afraid of change. Ultimately, by next autumn, her feathers will be shed.