Autumn is a season of discontent. All creatures feel the summer begin its ordered retreat from the field, and we are ill-pleased by it. We know the implied promises of summer, the endless ease, warmth and opportunity, are transitory, but we never believe, and we are taken unaware each time. We scramble and snatch at the pleasures of summer in its slow waning, squirrels hoarding nuts to see us through the winter.
Autumn is a season of sadness. Persephone, goddess of Spring, bids farewell to her mother and begins her mournful trek back to her lifeless winter home in the underworld. Nature draws in upon itself, conserving its energy for the coming cold and darkness. It is a season of endings, of things coming to a close, of loss and longing.
Autumn is a season of reflection. As we watch the retreat of summer, our minds are cast back to summers past, of joys forgotten, long days and endless loves, long since ended. Memory is a fine, rich wine, spiced with regret. But though our memories may be flavored with sorrow, so too is sorrow dilluted by the savor of remembered joy.
Autumn is a season of acceptance. None of our protests, none of our sorrow, none of our rememberences can slow the heedless turning of the wheel. Of all the truths of existance, none is crueler nor kinder than this; all things change. We change with them, or we are taken by the winter.