The Grand Dame of Fall

The cool breeze quietly whispers her name, The Grand Dame of Fall. Silently her shadow precedes her arrival as the long days of summer recede into the deep. She caresses us with her soft touch, and quiets our panting. Like the cold hand of a mother on the forehead of a feverish child, her embrace refreshes us within her chilled arms. Her robes are gold and earthy in color and swath the land in pining hues for the sun. She adorns herself with the perfume of smoke and spice. The glory of old age and the youth of death, her presence trumpets the beginning of the end. Long held in the gloom of the North, the mighty winter howls and sends forth the thundering proclamations of his coming. Sadly she is his messenger and her going is as quick as her coming. Never the beauty of spring, the glory of summer, or the power of winter, she is the Grand Dame of Fall.