Breathe; Autumn

Let me stop a moment here, in the drizzle of the  autumn rain, to relish the chill, let it soothe the Summer's pains.
I'm blind a sense, but the smell I know; Autumn.
Fall to run the summer greenery through with harvest and gold; Fall, oh my love.
To take a season as a lover, I would choose thee.
It is the fall in which I rise.
For irony and ire, fall IS my time.
I, as the trees, will lose all but return again, lush, despite it. I return and leave death appalled. It marks a year, in the late days of September, that I remember again the temptation to put out my embers, to enjoy that surrender... but, oh irony, one drunk was my salvation where another  my devastation.
Breathe fall over achieving, overshadowing sibling to the weeping Spring and her cottonwood tears. Rise Fall, in gold and ghoulish red tones.
Fall, rise of the harvest, rise of the mirth, harbinger to the season of myrrh.
Breathe, oh Autumn, your life into my lungs where the knife of spring against my mouth is cold. The thrill of fall courses through my tree leaf veins, warm.
Autumn is comfort, Autumn is my joy.
Autumn is the pick me up when I'm down, Autumn through the harvest, deer, wheat, elk, and corn alike.
Autumn let me hold thee for a moment in your long night arms, your wood smoke voice and the crackle of fire against the early chills.
Like the last stand of lush green Spring before the frigid winter, her polar gold sibling stands among the fields of harvest.
Autumn serene, let me breathe the October scent I remember so clearly.
Breathe Autumn, and I am intoxicated in my falls, warmed by the people I meet, by the kindness the season brings, sweeter than any mead.
I await the starlight, I embrace the dark, for this season... this season taught me the beauty in it.
Empty branches against a harvest red moon, the bugles of elk making hunters swoon, but maybe I am biased. It is Autumn in which I emerged from the womb. Autumn in which I've been reborn.
Autumn let me breathe against your golden lips and recall the scents before my memory slips.
Firewood of cedar, birch, and pine, the hours I spent chopping it, back when my body had firmer lines.
Apples upon apples upon apples, mountains of Zucchini, squash and gourds, vegetables, vegetables by the hoard.
Carving pumpkins, alongside mom and dad, one of the messiest, funnest traditions we have.
Baking pumpkin seeds, sharing them, though no one seemed to eat them... but I had to try, even if they were almost always bad.
Candy corn meant Elk season, at least according to dad. Just one of the many bits of fall wisdom to bestow upon me he has.
Hunting, I was learning the wind with the leaves.
Tracking, we, through the thickets, weaved.
Target practice, gun smoke in the breeze, lead embedded in the trees.
Breathe Autumn, let me see your breath on the breeze before the rivers freeze.