The seasons mirror life itself. The universal cycle. And the scenes of autumn reflect the culminating crescendo.
The ultimate reward, the fruit of effort, which also evokes nostalgia. The satisfaction tempered with fatigue, and that curious sadness after accomplishing a demanding work.
Indeed the autumn of life should be a glorious crescendo. The fleeting years resemble the fleeting transformation of colours, as the lazier sun casts longer shadows, before the earth reclaims the fallen leaves, their last embers éteints.
The season of reflection on the past, of memories coloured just as richly, of achievements that defy time, to savour like fine wine, the mellow bouquet of an excellent year.
A time to dream through half closed eyes, as the descending sun finally embraces the hills and mountains sending its last clin d'oeil of reds and golds.
The third and most revealing act of the play of seasons. Nature's disrobing. She sheds her wealth generously, perhaps also tragically, before the last act, the closing scene, then the final curtain, the white shroud of winter.
Text and photos © Mirino (PW). November, 2012