I walk out,
with the leaves orange and yellow
the damp air and grey skies,
and when I look out, I think
Fall is the
chill of dew in the morning,
trees painting the earth,
the often-overcast sky,
clouds as canvases,
watching the world change,
the rare spots of sunlight on the leaves,
sitting down with a cup of warm something,
a burning flame in a little jar
tinted with the smell of vanilla
and the smell of pie in the kitchen.
but always beautiful.
© Clara Rininger
This poem was first written back in October, when I found that I was contemplating the appearance of the dreary but colorful scenery to excessive degrees. I went and refined it yesterday – it wasn’t quite ready for the public yet.