Flirting with the last of the sunlight, Autumn let down her leaves so that his gold rays catch the shivers of red in her stems, the last bursts of life. Thus, Auburn was born, a color to remind us that there was life in the papery rasp underfoot.
She didn’t mind the auburn hey, grateful for its protection. Nor did she object to her plain, brownish plumage, a cozy mantle. She only had eyes for were her two hopes. One dark-yellow she nicknamed Aurum, the other off-white, nicknamed Albus. Easter was behind.
I love that sinking feeling that comes with seeing the leaves falling. Death may be unavoidable, but until then life still goes on and Autumn surely knows how to make the most of it.
When I think of Autumn I think of acorns. Of my childhood. I would go with my father and collect them for school. Acorns are symbolic for strength, youthfulness. Acorns are Forever. Happy memories.
Seeing from afar, carnelian (or cornelain) leaves are Autumn’s attempt at making… butterscotch.
Borrowing the fleshy shades of pumpkins and the brownish-red of quartz, Autumn created carnelian. But it wasn’t until the sun set her leaves ablaze with his cinnamon rays, that the magic happened.
And I let my bitter memories fall at my feet, between the carnelian leaves.
The bark of the pine tree is warm under my hands; I don’t mind it’s harsh feel. My fingers dig into its crevices, searching for centuries old secrets. And the same scent, sharp, sweet, and refreshing that welcomed him centuries ago, speaks to me now.
The morning mist enveloped autumn’s shades And auburn, crimson, scarlet – They all paled And blended into lurid, The yellow pale. Beneath the nascent sky.
If lurid mushrooms come your way, They’re good and healthy and they should stay For supper, if they may. But bright ones, picked in Autumn… Stay away! Or you own skin will turn lurid… One day.
I let them fly, Between the Autumn’s wings, My dreams, Like lurid ghosts amid the yellow leaves.
Some words carry an emotional burden, like lurid. Used in 17th century to describe stages of bruising and corpses, lurid sipped into nature: lifeless, pale, yellowish leaves of Autumn… Then it floated to ghastly light… And, finally, made the shocking news.
Dressed today only in russet and sepia, underneath a cloak of raindrops, Autumn painted her lips scarlet to match her passion for life. Whoever said Autumn if full of dead lives hasn’t seen her jumping through puddles.
The chestnut had stripped off its prickly shield for a luscious maroon and blushed a scarlet, thinking herself to be the sunset. For looking down, the chestnut thought she was the cause of the russet, parchment-like leaf… And Autumn sighed.
I saw Autumn lighting up leaves like some russet, amber and scarlet candles to celebrate the approach of Winter. The days are shorter, yet there is no loss in the Fall, but a celebration of what is to come. For tomorrow would be nothing without today.
Perhaps Fall painting her leaves scarlet is her way of reminding us that, even in the Autumn of our lives, we are still beautiful…
Hard to think of scarlet and not to end with “letter” or visualize Autumn leaves floating away with my thoughts… Yet scarlet, originated in the Persian saqalāt, was in Medieval Europe a high-priced, luxury, woolen cloth.
Which autumn color is your favorite? I hope you will return for more colors, seasonal posts and dog stories for all.
He didn’t care that the leaves had turned. All he cared about was his friend, missing. School had started. So he let himself drop among the russet, carmine and maroon leaves, and became one with Autumn.
A game of words to feast one’s senses. Just like the 13th century French word meaning reddish-brown, RUSSET brought us the homely feeling of a COARSE, homespun fabric. Plain, from the back country where rough skinned fruits with a tint of copper grow. Russet apples & pears.
I’ve been day dreaming of Russet pears. Their balmy aroma and textured skin paired with a surprisingly elegant neck. Creamy white flesh, a match for the rusty strikes on their skin. Soft and grainy, like a pear should be. Officially, Golden Russet Bosc. My childhood’s fruit.
I blink the brick wall away, my eyes intent on the piling of russet leaves. Their growing height sets my autumn days on fire. I hide from the gardener. ‘Set them alight today, Miss?’ He doesn’t know. Each evening I frolic in their reddish-brown crackle, a childhood whisper.
Do return for more autumn and dog – related posts. What do YOU like about Autumn?