Fall is vulnerable.

Fall is vulnerable. You can’t be verbose about fall because it is a season of whispers and secrets. To talk about it too much would be taboo. There are chills. There are hints of winter. But no one says a word. We all want to hold on to the last traces of summer.

Fall is poetic. The air is fresh in fall. It is crisp. You can feel it expand in your lungs as you breathe. The hairs on your arms get rigid. Skin gets an extra covering of clothes as trees shed theirs in elaborate and envious ways. You pull your collar closer to your neck and breathe hot air into your hands. A shiver.

Fall is nostalgic. The sun shines bright yet appears somehow dimmer, realizing its own warmth will soon take a bow and let cold steal the limelight. We see our frosty breath for the first time on an evening of fallen leaves and cotton hats. We grow anxious. But we still don’t talk about it. Not a word.


Songs for watching leaves change.