Autumn Age

Ron Koppelberger

Autumn Age

The burning orange glow of twilight skies and sun burnished paths of eternity, the wind in synchronicity with the rows of wheat bloom and corn shoot, he lifts his arms in supplication to fall coronas of saffron glow and the faded underside of spring. Leaves quicken to brown and crackling exhaustions of billowy carpeting; crunching beneath his feet, flowing in rambling heaps around his ankles they flitter and fold in harmony with the onset of autumn fame. He blinks away the summer sparrow as the echo of crow caw fills the air and suspiring in breaths of fresh satisfaction the cool northern breeze blows like a mythical tempest.
He smiles a burlap buttoned scarecrow grin and moves through lanes of fiery summer to the changing chrysalis of autumn fare, an affirmation of pumpkin angels and concealed serenades of waiting winter wash, waiting in death yet animated seasons of change, waiting for unchained winds to shift in silhouettes of fall fathers and uncanny mysteries of rebirth, evolution, waiting for god’s yearly revolution and the hands of time beckoning the beginning of a new passage.