As the children leave for home, or on to some new idea of play, the leaves may waft in the breeze, or lay still in silence, still in waiting, as the days push the season further and further along. As the days move on, more leaves fall from the trees, only to meet their end by the rake, by the sack, or by the fires of time. Still, some leaves remain on the ground, as the days of laughter become shortened by the awakening of the moon. Soon, the season of youth will walk through the night, knocking on doors for candied treasures. The fallen heroes who gave up their life for piles of glory guide them from house to house as their backs reflect silver moon rays.
Sitting in my writing chair, the season of youth still clings to my memory like the leaves that still cling to the branches. In misty recollection, a girl dressed up like batman walks across a yard full of leaves, kicking them aside for a knock on a door, as candy falls into an orange bag: spoils of the season. Soon the memory is gone, replaced by the scraping of a rake, as the pile of leaves that propelled me down memory lane is placed into a paper sack. With joy, I know that more feet will trod over silver dipped leaves, more laughter will fill the evening air. Candied treasures will fall into decorated bags, the spoils of yet another season. This will be mere mist and shadow for this season of youth to gaze upon one day in adulthood.