It’s been autumn for weeks now. I’m watching the leaves finally blow from the branches and fall to the ground, and I feel a sense of panic. The reds, yellows, oranges, and golds comfort me. The sudden suggestion of bare winter branches makes me feel cold, uneasy, and exposed. To what? I suppose the changing of the seasons shall reveal.
From the poem ‘Snow Angels’ by Louise McNeill:
For pollen scatters
The leaf must blow;
The winged seed follow the squall of snow