The coastline and the waterline mark their territory.
Standing like stalwart trees are those immovable entities we abide as real.
Lost as autumnal leaves dropping in the lake are the hopes and dreams of what might have been.
And the gentle breeze pushing leaves and dreams underwater sets off a shimmering-glimmering reflection
of things that might have been.
What glories you hide in your bosom, Lady Lake.
Let’s take a walk.
You’ll have to walk fast.
You do want to keep up.
Let’s step just so, and never touch the falling leaves, the beautiful falling leaves.
Tell me again. That wasn’t a crunch I heard, was it?
English: A pile of Southern Fall leaves (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
They had just begun to fall, when I started my search.
Small piles of leaves have begun to accumulate well ahead of the first frost.
Just today I spied a maple with a handful of leaves showing red-orange tinges. It’s just too early.
I left the search for a day, and the leaves began to drift into a tiny mound. Sunday’s cool storm brought down more. By not searching just one day I fear I may have sabotaged my prospects.
If ever I could find it, I know things would be just right. I would put a stop to this accelerating seasonal change.
The more I look the more leaves I seem to find. They were just scattered leaves when I began my search, and already they are making little mounds. If I am not careful it will be too late.
Say, you haven’t seen the off switch have you? It’s the one we use to stop the season dead in its tracks.