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Good Ol' Autumn
I. (“Piece”)ful on the Outside
One of life’s greatest litotes,
downplayed perennially,
and neglected for its spice of life:
that is autumn.
The autumn hearth—a scenic conjunction between
July’s stuffy nights and December’s pensive darkness.
The neighborhood comes alive, bustling block by block.
The little ones covet autumn, dulcetly binging the Halloween
sweetness; going from door to door, dressed as their ingenuities
of hocus-pocus.
(Although, imagination runs jaded in the older kids.)
To them, Halloween no longer seems long enough.
To them, Halloween is a new challenge of dress-up.
Whether the dress-up would be the stay-home
senior, who anxiously finalizes his final applications,
or the looney freshman, who thinks he still has
all of high school ahead of him,
Halloween just has lost its touch.
The autumn hearth—a worthwhile moment to
reflect upon a bittersweet reality.
It used to be a cycle, an amusement park
of rides, where entrance was free, yet only to
those who were young.
Young enough to know that time shouldn't
affect one's plans.
Young enough to tinker with the asking
out of a certain someone to trick or treat with.
Young enough to be blind to the widening
discrepancy of one's peers as everyone grows up.
The older ones who don't care still reside
in the parameters of the park; they still treat
school with the same frivolity that their
miniature companions once did, with the
same unworldly soul, that would soon cost
them, they'd realize. Yet, they'll only realize
when it's too late.
Sleepless nights, qualms of isolation, sweaty palms.
These angsts affect the good and bad students alike.
Teachers, they seem ready to take a break too.
//
Just wait, however, for Christmas is near.
Vivaldi's tempo sweetens and dynamics flood
the gates with harmony.
The December months are for sleeping in, resting from
the pressure, the racing thoughts, the cold.
Recline, and sink into the mellow, cushiony seat that
is your family; appreciate the premier love they've sustained
for all these tumultuous years. Be the one who thanks.
Though your gratitude may well be implicit. After all,
it's the thought that counts.
//
What is autumn?
It is a denouement, a fleeting school of anxiety, of rough
emotions; winter couldn't have come at a better time; each
year, the time comes clutch; each year, I sigh in relief.
It is the gate to a blooming Spring, where mothers stoop
and glorify their gardens of pastel; beautiful floral scents, the
pastimes of outdoor enjoyment; dashed with a scenic April rain.
It is the continuum of a fulfilling summer, where all pressures
are subdued for a heartfelt duration; where seniors are sent off
to college and where ceremonies commence around the world.
The autumn hearth—a place where all things come together; that is the "piece" of autumn.
II. Tortuous on the In
It is the passing of summer that commences
these autumn thoughts.
Wishes that had once been pocketed as
forgone indications of failure, suddenly revive
and manifest as heavy nightmares.
The chase to accomplish more before New Year's
worries the average high school junior, who for now
claims that he holds no regrets, but for the future
wishes that he'd done more.
The same high school junior who was once
a kid.
He implored for the coolest costume, sprinted
for the candy; he restlessly held his mom's arm,
and kept her chatting the whole way.
Now, he's tired.
Sleepless nights, qualms of isolation, sweaty palms.
Now, he needs a break.
Autumn showed me the climax; it showed me the fear.
It warned me that the next bit of my life was endlessly near.
It brought back memories of early-year regret, resolutions
that I never resolved; promises that I never fulfilled.
I write to autumn, not as a fan but as a follower:
Dear autumn, take me to the next year; then, when
time comes, take me back again.
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