Posts Tagged ‘autumn colour’


Bright burnt-orange and yellow leaves swirl off stories-high maple trees.

Some race upwards as others billow wide on a playful breeze.

Like children released at recess, the leaves seem set to begin a new journey. Summer days and nights in moonlit trees have passed.

Peerless blue sunny sky, the ephemera of autumn.


The sun has set but radiant light lingers about the tops of the trees.  Red-orange canopy doing a slow cha-cha in the evening breeze.

From my ground level office, I can see the changing garden.  No killing frost yet. Roots that steady and sink deep. Still-luminous Zinnias, gold and red.    

Agastache, licorice scented stems and leaves sag, laden with berry pink flowers.

A perfectly timed V-formation of geese passes through.

High in the sky, the maple dresses for autumn as the garden mellows into rich color.

As above, so below.


An afternoon walk in a suburban neighborhood.  Halloween bling every few houses.

A mild breeze, temps in the 70’s, and color on the trees the likes of which have not been seen for years.

Walking the dogs, we scuttle with dry but still colorful leaves down the street.

The perfection is timeless, seamlessness between self and sky that renders human transparent.

These are the moments for which we take on skin—to see and sense with no understanding, no cause or conclusion, nothing but the transitory joy that Is.

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From a window, afternoon light filters through shifting, still-clinging autumn leaves onto a laundry room wall. Dazzling, real-time projection. Viewed but unrecorded by anything other than my memory.  Home movies.

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Can you see through my eyes?
Fall leaves gold into green
Sun after clouds
Limitless blur of blue sky
Seasons slipping by me

A raucous jay, dimming light
Backlit gold into red
Rise and fall in the breathing wind
Years getting by me

I have seen too much
How I wish you were here

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On walkabout, I came around the corner and spied the statuesque trees that line the north side of my property.

The youngest of the three is almost the height of its neighbors, and like my son who planted it from a maple helicopter, lacks only in girth.  The other two, red and yellow maples respectively, resided here before we.

Deep inside each tree I notice autumnal colours near the trunk, yet hidden except for those looking.

They say beauty is only skin deep, and in some instances, perhaps it is true.  But like the brilliance of those just turning leaves, for those that can see?  I think beauty more often starts on the inside.

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Perfect autumn day.

On walkabout the landscape is brilliant.  Crystal clear air, forever blue sky, green lush lawns, each tree its own perfect expression.  Every leaf in place.  Pregnant.  Tis’ the season but the fiery palatte of autumn has not arrived.  A secret moment whose arrival is still  known only to the trees.

I thought I heard them whispering, but it could have been the breeze.

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Autumn’s Way

This morning I paused at my son’s school to look eastward. The sun rose, a butter yellow disk through lifting fog.

Partial wetlands blanket the school campus and a tributary runs directly beneath a light walking bridge to the school. Slimmed by meager rain, the stream itself wandered between burgeoning banks of seasoned flora – echinacea, aged goldenrod, grasses, stream loving plants.

From the bridge, such colours – deep browns, licks of purple, gold, red, green, grey, chartreuse, puffy, stiff, dispersed seedheads of every kind – an autumnal cloak the likes of which I have never seen. To hold, to wear such a thing, to be a plant among such company, a sensuality far beyond a crisp summer day.  A  fine mist blurred the colours, just as age blurs my own eyes.

Later I spoke with the school secretary, mentioning the autumn finery — she spoke exuberantly about trees just hinting of the show to come.  In time – yes, the trees will seem gaudy next to their shorter competition  — but for now, my attention is to the ground, the carpet of cooling, pooling, passionate colours that lay as gifts around my feet.

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