Autumn announces itself from the treetops as God's paintbrush drips rustic colors across the skyline again. Overripe reds, antique yellows, even waning oranges and some splashes of eleventh hour greens briefly stain the foliage, before these chameleon leaves finally fade into withered and terminal brown. Soon there will only be whitewashed nothingness as the tree branches become spindly black silhouettes cradling armfuls of snow. Meanwhile, we must endure a period of flannel-clad pumpkin zealots stirring cider with cinnamon sticks while hoarding Mars Bars for Hallowe'en.
And there will be mandatory apple picking, enforced corn maze wandering, compulsory Pilgrim Father impersonating, obligatory basket weaving, required gourd collecting, involuntary cornucopia arranging, and everyone must submerge themselves in heaps of freshly raked leaves providing hours of fun-filled seasonal decay for the whole family. If tuberculosis had not killed John Keats then the increasing commodification of this 'season of mists' would have sent him into apoplexy.
For in modern times, the poetry of Autumn is mostly rewritten as sales patter prose. Those mists are extinguished with orchard scented air fresheners and mellow fruitfulness is coated with milk chocolate. To find inspiration from a cyder-presses 'last oozings' you will need to pay for a guided tour of the orchard, featuring complimentary hay-ride and souvenir tankard. But at least the changing color of the leaves requires no entrance fee, and remains an experience still unencumbered by a gift shop or downloadable soundtrack narration. Overripe reds, antique yellows, even waning oranges and some splashes of eleventh hour greens, enjoy them before God replaces his paintbrush in the turpentine.
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