Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,
And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?
- Dante Alighieri
Autumn is here and with it comes the invitation to slow down, to let go, to rest, to absorb.
Autumn's voice is soft, almost a whisper. You can miss it if you're not careful. It does not shout. It does not grab you and demand attention. It's an artist alone in its studio. It moves in a quiet rhythm of change effortlessly waving its palette of paints coloring the landscape in a rainbow, then in muted hues, until at last winter arrives like an unskilled laborer carrying a bucket, bruptly splashing everything with gray.
For now, the colors delight and instruct. Look and listen.
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