I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness!
We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words.
I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.
The Published Ramblings of a Confused Michiganian |
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Summer sat, her vibrant green dress of delicate moss covering her bare feet and her sunflower hair flowing down to the marble floor now that she was no longer standing. Autumn rose and sauntered up to the crystal podium to make his case. He wore an tapestry of colored leaves for a shirt and pale yellow harvest corn stalks for pants that crackled as if still afield and swaying in the breeze. His hair was short and brown and his skin tanned by millennia under the harvest moon. "I am the season most prized by women and men. For I am the bountiful harvest, fullness of the belly and spirit and hope to survive the long, bleak Winter. I am the time year when the trees themselves explode in colors as at no other time, and fall from the trees like confetti to celebrate me. From shades of the deepest crimson to the palest yellow, orange hues that have no name, brown and purple, the leaves decorate the earth in my honor. Mature colors that are not the novice flowers and budlings of Spring. Trees and bushes, vines and stalks become heavy with my fruit, more nourishing and hardy then the offerings of Summer. My sun still brings warmth, reminiscent of the heat just past, though the chill of my wind reminds humankind to prepare for the coming cold. I am not rebirth or death or a wild adolescence, but a ripe age. Mindful, beautiful, and plentiful, I am the season of fulfillment." Autumn's eyes gleamed like sunlight off a maple leaf as he paused. He turned as if to leave, then faced the assembly once more. "Also, I am apple cider, corn mazes, pumpkin pie, Halloween, and football, so really, you other seasons don't stand a chance." Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness! We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words. I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.
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