Sometimes the senses are strongest in the swinging seasons. When the earth slingshots around and a quickening growth or decline of sunlit hours describes the dreidel wobble of the earth. When the greens grow or crinkle, when rains drizzle down the branches into nutrient-rich earth, as chimneys spew smoke and pines music the air, as dogwoods die in crimson, sugar maples in orange-red, broad-leaf maples into yellow-orange, and japanese maples brush purple, while the larch trees transform into goldenrod yellow, painting the mountainsides in hearth-fire. The noxious fumes of city factories ripen in these seasons, bleeding into the stones beneath our feet.
Already, the morning condensation settles along the windows with an illusory icy sheen. Even as fall slowly settles, a wintry breeze promises cold, and not long waiting.
Which of us, in his ambitious moments, has not dreamed of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical, without rhyme and without rhythm, supple enough and rugged enough to adapt itself to the lyrical impulses of the soul, the undulations of the psyche, the prickings of consciousness?
~Charles Baudelaire
Willingly blinded, I minded not my senses, not my memories: the scented trees, autumn breeze, patterned paintings of passing time. Beards of fire burden the trees, the pond cries reflected tree tears and broods on blue; a giant fowl sits over the sky, incubating, and its nest of branches and fog is a ghastly ghost nest, fledglings shivering beside fires. Glance away, and I remember not Fall's chai tie and patchy pumpkin sweaters, his shaggy hair and shredded trousers. A slate gatsby hat settles atop his head, and he limps, his disposition darker every day. I recall not, for my perception rests, and wakes only blind, now and again.
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