The Bursting of Fall

Day 6

The Bursting of Fall

Fall mostly comes quickly, usually after school starts
and daylight savings time nears

its reluctant entry into our lives.
The sides of steep and sloping mountains

and deep and shallow ravines burst
into reds, oranges, burnt sienna, and yellows,

sometimes meshed like yarn in a kaleidoscope tie.
Often, we stop along the road in a safe place

or on a dirt road that runs up to a locked gate or fence, laden
with a rusted chain and lock, brittle weeds, or sagging fence line.

The fences are generally high, hopefully keeping the deer
from bounding over and onto the busy road, especially at night.

Some are great leapers and make it across,
only to face oncoming traffic and death.

I love the reds and oranges the most,
their vibrancy overwhelming my sense of calm and revelry.

I sometimes wonder, though, who decided on the colors,
the majesty of it all flowing so perfectly and decidedly

in the eternal equation of time—first, one day at 98 degrees,
then the next plummeting to 32 at night,

thwarting all living sap from flowing anywhere,
causing the various shades of colors and extravagant hues.

It is the night coldness in the dark and behind the scenes
that creates the flagrancy of colors on hillsides and in ravines 

and between green pines and golden quakies.
I still ease out of traffic onto the shoulder and dirt roads,

close to the fence, rock-laden paths, thistles, and grass,

just to be alone with creative colors and their Creator.