Autumn. Fall. Any other name, might smell as sweet.

The genuine colors of fall.

Music wafting through the air,  like comfortable and familiar memories.

Books. Books that walk the tightrope between tragic and lovely. Books that open a chasm, a craving for words.

Smooth, rich, sweet honey. Dripping gently, soaking softly, sticking determinedly.

Cider thick with flavor and warmth. Comforting cider on the early-morning drive to work.

Sitting, whispering, talking, giggling with sisters home for a visit.

Autumn, the poetic and sing-song name. Fall, the casual and trite name. Connotation is incredible. Roses might smell the same even if they had an ugly, disagreeable name-- but would we approach them for the smelling?

Cleaning nooks and crannies, diligently. On a mission to avoid grading, avoid bedtime, avoid the busy next day.

But always the brisk air, the sky crowded out by clouds, the leaves cut off from water and falling from the trees. Expendable leaves. Always the sweaters and scarves, the thick leg-warmers and wool socks. Always the ticking of time, the predictable switch of seasons, the patterns. The patterns that, year by year, look a little new and a little familiar.

We know what comes next in this pattern: figid air, snow, Christmas.
But it's not here yet. Don't let this present pattern piece pass before squeezing out every single thing it has to offer.

Don't ignore this autumn.