Today Autumn leaves kept falling through the air, tumbling softly, weightless, fair, as if their downward, wind-borne flight was touched by magic, kissed by light — like springtime husks, once green and clear, now golden flakes of the passing year. The warmer season now was done, and I, a dreamer with my lens and sun, ran a marathon of falling grace — five hundred frames, each leaf in place, enough to catch that trembling fire, that pulse of Earth, my deep desire. I came back home with quiet cheer, a harvest of colors, gathered near, to pave my secret inner ways with shades that mirrored autumn’s haze. Each fleeting scene that wings had traced was lace of gold the light embraced, enough to dizzy, to unseat, to turn the gaze from outward beat toward the eye that lives within — to lose a breath, yet peace begin. All this speaks through fields’ faint song, where late flowers still belong, and bumblebees, their hums confined, stir the coolness left behind — last winged wanderers of the year, as winter’s hush is drawing near. And I breathe in the purified air, the calm restored, the burden rare, after the fevered mire of summer’s end, when heat and longing used to blend. All this speaks of peace hard-won, of temples gilded by the sun, of landscapes carved in the heart’s own art — perhaps that’s joy, when seasons part.
