The cold chill passing through your bones like a knife ignoring the flesh.

The wet air clinging to your form trying to embrace you and knowing you can never respond in kind forever sorrowful.

Leaves changing in color dieing, dropping from their host only to feed the ground that fed them.

The sweet smell of unripened cherries rotting, making a scent so beautiful it attracts all who witness it.

The angel of autumn is truly ever present during this time, both joy and sorrow with it.