With autumn, the year drifts lazily to its close. Autumn is like its leaves: sometimes brilliant, always orange, red, yellow, finally brown. It is the time of warm days, cool nights, sparkling skies, the west wind, of joy and melancholy. It is the time of flame, of compost making. It is the time of fire, before the ice. It is the time for letting go, finally, like its unleaving trees.
But if, with autumn, the trees unleave, it is only that they may leaf again in spring; November's compost is April's seed. The fire and the ice and the rose are one (cf T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding").
Southgate MT. Fall Landscape in Deer Grove. JAMA. 1999;282(18):1700. doi:10-1001/pubs.JAMA-ISSN-0098-7484-282-18-jcs90039