Autumn is my Favorite Season

Each person has their own favorite season. Some people like winter, which brings New Years, skiing, snowballing. Others admire the spring, sometimes the awakening of nature from sleep. Sometimes, when streams ring and drops cry. Someone simply adores summer: vacations, swimming in rivers, walks with friends. And I like autumn.

I think autumn is the most beautiful time. The leaves of the trees change their color, if in the summer they were green, now they glow with golden, crimson, orange colors.

Nature is preparing for a long winter sleep, but there are still warm days, it is so good to walk in the autumn park when fallen leaves are barely audible and mysteriously rustling underfoot as if saying goodbye to the past summer.

Fresh air smells like rotten leaves, wet earth. High in the sky, cranes are chirping and flying to hot countries.

Walking in the autumn park, I really like to collect bouquets of fallen colorful leaves.

It turns out such wonderful bright bouquets, which are in no way inferior to bouquets of flowers. I also like to use autumn leaves instead of bookmarks for books.

Most of all, I like autumn because it is the rainiest time, I really like to walk in the rain. When it’s time for long rains, it’s so nice to get into a comfortable chair, cover yourself with a blanket and, listening to the sound of the rain outside the window, read some interesting book, or just dream about something.

Every year our school hosts the Golden Autumn holiday. The assembly hall is decorated with garlands of autumn leaves, and on the tables - gifts of autumn, because autumn is the time for harvesting.

All our poets wrote about autumn, showered it with dozens of epithets, autumn was depicted on their canvases by all great painters, conveying with paints all the splendor of this divine beauty.

Near my house, a rowan grows under the window, how beautiful it is in autumn! When leaves have already flown from all the trees, the mountain ash simply blazes with its clusters of scarlet berries.

I love the time of falling leaves, when the leaves slowly swirling in the air, slowly falling and covering the whole earth with a golden carpet. I also like it when in the fall the loose leaves gathered in a heap are burned. For some reason, the smell of these leaves always evokes in me a feeling of some kind of nagging sadness and sadness, but light and light sadness. I was born in the fall, maybe that's why I love this most wonderful time of the year with all my heart and soul. I am always looking forward to the onset of this wonderful time, which gives me happiness and joy.

Nothing is quite so remarkable as the change that takes place in the autumn. Where not so long ago we were surrounded by bushes and trees resplendent in their summer greens, we are now living in a world of jumbled hues of orange and gold and rust. Where just days ago the lawn around the house was a well-vacuumed carpet of grass, clipped and tidy, it is now virtually covered over with fallen dried leaves. Autumn lingers like pleasant memories from a good friend's visit, like the fresh-scrubbed oxygen that a thunderstorm leaves behind. It is a time of change when every morning brings new colors, new smells, and an altered vista. It is a time when even as the pace of change quickens in the natural world, the pace of man slows. It is the season of meandering strolls through multihued glens, through the melancholy fluttering of leaves falling to the ground.

Autumn is a time of introspection when the sniff of drying foliage and loam slow the mind to consider days past, the highs and lows of a life. Every season has its own beauty, but autumn, like spring, brings with it a mood. If spring exults in new life, autumn examines the old; if spring is the anticipation of tomorrow, autumn is a meditation on yesterday. So much of life is a process; so much of it is just paying attention. What good is our stumbling if we never look back to understand why we tripped? What good is a victory if it doesn't leave us more humble? What good is life itself if tomorrow doesn't find us better than we were the day before? In the magnificent untidiness of our life-walk, it is necessary to pause beneath the drifting, dying leaves of autumn and examine the grace just spent. I want to learn to pay better attention: to listen, to observe, to learn. Nature never stands still; it is always moving, pressing into the next day. Today's tree will be taller tomorrow—or it will be fallen, lying dead and rotting in last year's leaves. Today's grass, luxuriously pliant and green, will tomorrow be brittle and parched, brown and sharp to the touch. The fawn that accompanies his mother today will next year be taller and on his own—or he may become a hunter's trophy. Time never stops.

Season passes into season, change inevitably comes. As I gaze out my window, into the trees of Land Park that each day put on new clothes, I feel a sense of urgency. What have I accomplished today? The days continue to tick by; what am I doing that will yield eternal results? The person I pass on the street today will tomorrow be older—or dead. What have I done today so that his tomorrow will be something more than just his being one day older? Have I been kind to those around me, or have I been impatient and rude? Do I expect everyone to be perfect like me? Or do I allow for the imperfections everyone else permits me? Will the world be better—or larger—tomorrow, because of something I've done today? Have I filled up each day using the gifts God has graciously entrusted to me? Have I used them or have I squandered them? Some young plants and trees still need to be watered in the autumn. They ask for deep-rooted sustenance to carry them through the dormancy of winter. As I fill the old galvanized bucket with water and carry it to the base of the small tree newly planted in the yard, I notice a few drops leaking from the bottom edge, trailing a glistening path of drips through the drying leaves that carpet the grass. And I realize that when we are born, we are each given a bucketful of days. God fills our bucket to overflowing, pouring into it, as well, all God’s goodness and blessings, gifts and opportunities. As time passes, the days drip out, one by one, until, at our earthly end, the bucket is dry. Our days have run out. Our gifts and opportunities have reached their end. No more. Each of us begins with a bucketful of days. But only God knows how many days are in our bucket. Will we spend them well? 

Did you like this example?

1372

75