Quarters of Beauty

I love the whispers of Autumn. They bring me back to memories of my childhood. There is a certain feeling; it is the smell in the air--that cool crisp smell which freezes your nose--and the colors on the trees--those rustic oranges and ruddy splashes of the drapery--that remind me of when I was young. I am always inspired to recreate that feeling in photos, I suppose artists always do. However, photos or paintings fall short of replication only achieving a mere appropriation of the beauty; only borrowing from the text instead of scribal rewrites, for the text is too hard. Perhaps it's like the little boys who make a snowball to store in the freezer to remember come summertime. But yes, the sublimation laws of physics always seem to destroy our fun.

We try anyway. We try because we love to hold on to that which dies or that which is temporary. So much so that when the first snow falls and we get out the snow shovels and Mother's Christmas pudding, we furtively look at the pictures on the wall. Pictures of colors that we stored away to remember that which once was. And we secretly wonder if we were cheated this year from a shortened autumn, why didn't you stay like you promised you would? Why did you leave so soon?

Though I never lose hope, for maybe this wasn't the year the Promise was fulfilled, yet I know that someday that year will come. The year when I wake up and it is always Autumn.