Color My World

Leaves swirl tantalizingly above, caught up in the crisp, sweetly scented wind as if children, enchanted by their lively and rich hues, had tossed them into the air. Or perhaps they wished to catch a whiff of the pungent and precious sweet smell of them, longed for it to fill their lungs to bursting point. In turn, perhaps it wasn't the smell itself they longed to be filled with, but the entire sensation of the season itself. As if inside their small bodies they could contain all of the inimitable beauty offered to them, where they could hold it all through winter when the world was devoid of color and they had something to look forward to. A little reminder to them all that color would once again flood the earth, things would once again become ablaze with life and wonder.

I too breathe deep as I step outside my house, closing my eyes and visualizing being in a different place besides this concrete block of tightly woven houses, lawns and winding streets. In my mind's eye, and within the wide open spaces of my perpetually over active imagination I imagine myself dancing upon those swirling leaves. Feeling their rough surfaces scratch my face, hear the gentle wind whisper of winter's coming breath and urgently wishing me to never close my eyes against the colorful display before me. For it is oh so fleeting. It is nature's last attempt to draw the human eye to itself before most of the world succumbs to a uniform blanket of snow like pulsing black and white threads across every television channel. Each one the same, each one burning against your eyes, forcing you to look away and only imagine what it looks like beneath the surface.

Driving along the highway it eventually dwindles into narrow roads that simply meander into the countryside, like concrete streams trickling from the heart of a mountain's peak or a wider river that feeds the life of many. My face is plastered to the window, where beyond its thin pane is captured and framed the wondrous beauty that weaves and threads itself into existence in my mind long before summer has ended. Amidst the thick, blithely swaying beds of wheat and corn the tree tops are ablaze in brilliant, startling, striking and captivating beauty. It seems, as I stare spell bound at them, the lines to a million stories run through my mind. I try to hold on to some of them, attempting to make sense of them. But it's no use. My mind, as well as the rest of me, are too caught up in the magical tapestry spread before. Just as if I was writing a story, I have fallen head first into its beauty, and foresee no escape under I've departed from it.

Stepping out into the crisp air I instantly inhale the sweet, pungent smell of fallen leaves. They litter the ground like a thousand centuries old quilts laid out on the forest floor. A cushioning of sorts for weary animals, or a treasured crunching sound underfoot that penetrates the luscious countryside silence like teeth biting into the succulent flesh of a fresh apple. For a moment I stand where I am, simply enjoying the first few seconds I've stepped into amidst this season.

Then my family calls to me and I run ahead, tempted to close my eyes once more to seal in the images flipping through my mind like a fallen photo album who's pages are fanned by the wind. Reaching them I slow down, walking next to them amidst a fiery blaze of color. Varying shades of yellow, orange, red and brown litter the ground and ignite many a tree canopy around and above me. Making me feel as if I was walking into an abstractly solid wildfire. A world set ablaze without flame. The palpable sweet smell of a wood stove without smoke. I find myself set off kilter because of such thoughts. But yet I feel exhilarated and enlightened. Captivated and intrigued, as if I was able to write a thousand stories in that moment, capturing every feeling, emotion and thought on paper as vividly as I was writing with my vision.

My eyes habitually seek out the reddest of the leaves and upon finding one would instantly take it into my hand. Sometimes it would be a daring candy apple red, bringing to my mind the image of a classic 60's Ford Mustang. Other times it would be a regal, almost blood red. Conjuring up images in my mind of luxurious red velvet dresses and the blatant richness that this fleeting and fiercely captivating season has to offer. In addition I would seek out the brightest yellows, marveling at their pureness, with barely a brown spot or hole to be found. Deep orange leaves reminded me of bulbous pumpkins scattered throughout corn mazes and pumpkin farms across America. Synonymous with this time of year, they were just another sign of the approaching beauty, another symbol for me to loose myself in.

My mouth waters at the thought of yet another sing of this approaching season which I love so dearly. Bringing the mug to my lips that I had clutched so secerly in my hands I closed my eyes as rich and warm apple cider flows between my parted lips and dispels the afternoon chill from my skin that, even though clothed in my favorite sweater, jacket and scarf, succumbed to the penetrating chill laced with whispers of winter's approach. As I lower the mug images of fresh apples hanging from trees and quaint, countryside apple stores dance through my mind like a catalogue of treasured post cards collected over the years. My mouth waters at the thought of biting into a fresh, pink skinned apple. Tangy juice would burst inside my mouth like a waterfall of sweet flavors. The taunt skin would break easily, allowing my teeth to sink into the tantalizingly soft flesh, where the flavors of every colored leaf set ablaze was seemingly collected and saved just for me. So I could also taste such beauty, instead of simply experiencing it.

But oh how I had experienced it! Letting my writer's mind, heart and soul walk before me as if detached from my physical body. I knew as I glanced a last longing, captivated and wonder-filled look at the fiery forest behind me that I would write a thousand lines to a thousand stories that night, my mind filled to the bursting point with dozens of sensory smells, captivated emotions, loosely woven fragments of stories both experienced by me and by fictional characters that had yet to take root within a story. Stories would live on in photographs as well, each one snapped as my writer's eye looks through the lens, imagining each freeze frame to be a potential story in itself.

This is just a snippet of how I view Fall, my most beloved time of year! The colors are simply breath taking and for a free handed writer of short stories like myself, it's a dream come true. A Heavenly playground for the senses and beyond! Whether this is how you view Fall or not I hope everyone gets to enjoy its undeniable beauty and fleeting wonder for however long you can. I know I will!