“…Autumn was different. It was the season she remembered, when life of the past shone in different ways, in colors hidden by the green of summers lived, illuminating the richness and a difference always present beneath the summer colors viewed. You didn’t see it in the summer, but it shone when the green gave way and the depths of colors fighting to remain rose through: the energy in golds, a somberness in red; how in a few days’ time, what seemed common became different and, from different, disappeared.
She always felt a sadness when the colors left, when the brilliance of autumn’s ephemeral fell into the nakedness of winter. There were always still the pines, the deep greens that never changed until the world became too dry; but she missed the colors, the moments when all was revealed that you had never seen before and would never know again—not in the same way—except for the moment lived.
Every autumn has its revelations…”