There’s something about that burnt orange, the orange often-called pumpkin, which speaks to me. Maybe it’s the spiced tone, giving off an aroma of coffee shops and ease. It could possibly be the way the flame-like hue makes me want to put wool socks on my cold feet and snuggle up to a sweet puppy. More likely, though, it’s the way that the warm shade of orange is related to everything that I love about fall.
I love the leaves. I love the way they crunch, the way they change, and they way they smell when dew falls on them. I can’t get enough of how there are never two colors of leaves exactly alike, almost like fingerprints from our silent friends. The trees are poetic, because they create indescribable beauty from their yearly death. When the leaves fall on the ground as the rain pours, it looks like the heavens took the time to make the world’s largest watercolor painting, for the rich, poor, old, and young to enjoy. The Louvre envies my sidewalk.
The air is rejuvenating. One breath in, and all your troubles are evaporated. One breath out, your sorrows are blown away. When I walk down the street with my hands in my pockets, I don’t bother to cover my nose from the cold. I love it. The way the air feels when I take a deep breath, almost like chewing on a peppermint, is crisp and rich. It makes me think of winter and summer doing a dance, and as a result they create the most beautiful waltz ever seen.
