Ode to Fall

I love the way summer ripens into fall. The colder air flirts with the trees, and the leaves blush, the color flooding their faces in warm hues. I love the way the air feels, the crisp feeling, like the skin of an apple as I bite through its surface and feel the juice run down my lips. There is a sense of finale, of nature going through one last set of beautiful acrobatics before sinking back in hibernation, deep into the roots and trunks of things until spring comes. I love how round the pumpkins are and the way they roll, lopsided, as I push them in the dirt and pick them up by their scratchy stems and wrap my arms around them. The smell of cider rushes my senses; it reminds me of the way cinnamon dances on my tongue. We lace up our boots and tie our scarves and the soft wrapping of jackets and sweatshirts and winter coats begins. But the best of fall is the mornings. The mornings when the sun glows, but my breath still forms into little clouds that kiss my face. My skin shivers, but in an excited way. And the leaves, illuminated from the morning sun, fall to the sidewalk and dance around me as I breath in the stillness and I hear them whispering, "This is fall."