Vernal Equinox

The seasons were dismantling. One rolled itself across the northeast like a thick, spiced dough. It inhaled and leaves were caught in its bite. It whispered an earthy perfume and sang an antiquated lullaby of sleep and death. There was something horribly gorgeous in its offering. The harvest, the fallen seeds and nuts, the apples and pumpkins were surrendered to the creatures that tucked themselves fatly into holes and nests and caves. Autumn was a martyr. It was red, orange, yellow, and brown, a fire-burst fading fast. It was a finale - the curtain falling. The last note played before a long rest. Then there was ice.