Muted gold.
They are the colors of fire; reds, yellows and orange golds. They have the look of dancing flames; fluttering, flickering, Leaping to make smoldering piles of color; bright with their beauty. They are the clearist and most recognizable signs.
There is also the smell of spices, of pumpkin and rich feast. There is the feel of the air; the clean clear crisp of it bringing the world back in to focus. Every sensation begins to become more sharp,
more crisp.
It is in
the air.
It is the taste of tangy things, and of juicy things, and the tingling bubbles of cider. But the taste is something more.
There is a taste not conjured by clever hands at mixing bowls, nor offered up by nature’s green. It is a taste perhaps absent for some.
It is the taste of sadness.
Sadness aged
and well set in
as tostrengthen
the flavor.
It is the sadness of loss,
and yet,
it is release.
It is a golden thing;
a lovely golden sadness;
crisp at the edges.

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