45 degrees in my burgeoning autumn paradise; a world where the rain is made of pecans and acorns and leaves crinkled like the skin of old grandmas (they smell just as sweet to me). The grass outside is taking its time, no more shoots and ladders days of summer, and foot high blades of late-sunset heat frenzies. There is a dream curtain being lifted to the sound of a Liszt waltz, all stuttering crashes and harmony. The haze of oppressive, black-tar heat rises and leaves me in the moment when I forget that I'm part of the audience. The blue of the sky dances with vibrancy and echoes off my heartwalls, making a tune for frost to gather on solemnly but with relish. To savor, in food, can be to season or to enjoy the seasoning of. The air is savored once again, of season and in season. The blood of the world is slowing in sleep, but not before one final gasp of steaming breath into the skirling winds of the Northlands. The sun itself seems to sing a delicate lovers song into the orange evening and husky remembrances of life which surface like wraiths in the dew-soft fields of fireside memories. The autumn of my year peers jovially into the hollow colds of winter, into the crisp mornings of frozen breath and rosy faces where cold becomes a living beast, as it prepares to lock up the world with the hearty laugh of the reveler, and the shaking off of its skins as a dog shakes water, smiling for the sheer crazy, living, joy of it. I sit awestruck in this world once again. Autumn is a time for leaving, but proliferation occurs here too, as new birth is given to my sense of wonder and my faith in magic. The hearts are full of stars and the skies of tears as the Earth truly opens with its closing.