“He wrote in the fall, and his words fell to page like leaves in winds of wondering. He wrote in hues of golden hopes, scarlet sorrows, and a life of shades between. When the rains of winter came, the shades between were the first to fade, become broken down and made no more; and when he walked in his winter mind, hopes and sorrows were the colors that remained. He knew where to walk for the stands and scattering of fallen words where each held and colored woods of thought. He stayed among these stands when needing more than the barren browns and grays of a world left to rains, and it was among these stands—in canopy above gold-scattered floor—that the first buds of spring appeared when a new life season signed.”