Autumn and Anarchism
Please read and enjoy the work of a talented writer.
I smell the musky, earthy, damp leaf loam of Autumn.
Everything is falling apart a little bit.
Everything is becoming a little frayed and undone.
The crisp perfection of spring tulips, that once stood to attention along tidy borders like governmental obelisks are crumbling like coliseum pillars. Petals are transparent, leaves brittle and curled. All things change and there is a little death in every change. Yet in every death there is also a resurrection, a renewal, a rebirth.
The garden is but a raggle, taggle jumble in the stewy, dewy, un-brewed tea light of a sun that can’t be bothered to climb to the heady heights of noon anymore.
Bits of old man’s beard roll through flaky Hydrangea like tumbleweed.
The windfall russet’s skin is crumpling like old brown paper.
All has withered, weathered and gone to seed.
It is like nature is breathing a gentle sigh.
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