why fall is best
A statue among the berry-trees, of course they’re coming back for me. Behind the spired gates, the long-lost mums are finally blooming. They wait in the cold and like it. Inside, our coats and hats rustle in their closets, lonely for the weather.
We all reflect the colors in the sky – it’s what all that blue is made of. The berries’ blood, the flowers’ tiny dying trees in orange and gold and green.
New York loves fall because it doesn’t have to fight it. No rakes find footholds here, no hours bend under the larger dying trees to gather up their colors. We can slip down the sidestreets, late on an early-darkened October night, acorns and yellow leaves ticking the pavement around us, and be happy, almost-cold, and free.
shelly
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