Discover the autumn days

Discover the Autumn Days

Discover the pears that litter the ground, wilted and aging - calling to the Pear Gods, "Please turn me into butter or jam."

Discover the goldenrod, way past its bloom - but still it stands tall, waving in the breeze, calling to birds and to bees.

Discover the spiderweb daintily dangling from each window eaves - delicate patterns of exquisite taste, built by the orb masters of every late fall.

Discover the frost asters dancing above the fields of grain - looking like snowflakes from far away, but mimicking a daisy when each bloom is held close.

Discover the pumpkins - fat, round and orange - delighting the fancies of all young and old.

Discover the cider, all spicy and warm - it touches that something deep down in our souls.

Discover the autumn leaves - broadcasting on trees and littering the ground - Mother Nature's own firework display.

Discover the cool nip in the air - burning your lungs, but opening your senses - your breath coming out in frosty whispers.

Discover the autumn days, don't let them slip away, because in the blink of an eye they're all gone, sleeping away until another year has gone by.

The Old Orchard

THE OLD ORCHARD

Standing in the orchard, I feel the rough peeling bark of the ancient apple tree. Years of neglect have left the once fruitful tree with tangles of overgrown branches, shooting suckers and sparse apples limply hanging like castaways. Where had the time gone? When was the last time I felt the warmth of my muscles tending the orchard?

Time has passed, and not been gentle with the years. I've grown older, but am now the last of my line. What will happen to this dying land? Who will care once I'm gone?

Slowly bending down, I pick a shriveled apple up from the tangle of weeds at the base of the tree. Half green, half red, except for the shrinkage, a perfect specimen of the once vibrant tree. No worm holes, no bug bites, just shriveled skin - it matches my hands and the lines on my face.

I slip the fruit into my apron pocket and with the assistance of my trusty walking stick, I head back to the house. I pass pear trees and plum trees and peaches long gone. "They are dying as well," I think as a tear slides down my cheek.

This is the end of the line, no one else cares. Standing in the middle of my beloved orchard, my heart is breaking. There is no reason to go on, there is no one to miss me. Am I to end up like the abandoned fruit of my orchard?