The Sap runs slow and sad

When the leaves start to change, so do I.  The wild, bright-blooming energy fades away, the fiery spark kindled in summer becoming a smoldering coal coated in ash.

Autumn is the time of plenty, of Harvest,  of fleeing the Changing Times.  It is the Equinox and the loss of my Balance.  In the fall my senses are overcome with scents, my heart with conflicting emotions as parts of my brain declare revolution against themselves and nothing in particular.

Autumn is joyful and bright, temperatures perfect for pageantry and play.  Autumn is gray and dull, mist and rain blurring the landscape, muting the singing of the wind in the last leaves.  Autumn is pain crackling in my joints and a steady dull throb in my head.  Autumn is delight, warm blankets, cozy snuggles and a good book.

It is the beginning of the Mad Times, where I can neither sleep enough nor at all.   It is the time of feelings so intense my eyes tear up with them, and a sense of space and vacancy about and within myself I cannot overcome.  It is the time of sparkling, incandescent inspiration jumping out fierce and swift as squirrels quarrelling over caches of food.

Autumn is my favorite season in the world about me, and my least favorite within.  I am in a tumult, mind spinning madly when it is not bogged down in interminably winding trails leading nowhere at all.

I write poetry and songs that leap onto the page, prose following suit as if fleeing the chaos of my mind.  All the arts and crafts seems easier, when my fingers can keep up with the stampede of thought and feeling, a flash flood of color and sound.  I cannot plan the pieces of Autumn, I only seem able to let them flow freely or not at all, a binary setting for creative output.

I am tired but cannot sleep, muscles tingling with renewed energy long after my conscious mind has nodded off, leaving me lying in the dark unthinking.  I hear chimes in the distance, smell woodsmoke, leaf mold, mums, feel a gentle breeze on my face.  All I want to do is move, dance, run, bask in it all.
And yet, I am spent.  The year is waning, and I grow more tired with it, as ready to dream as the trees.


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