She was supposed to be green forever, but shook her head, turning richly brown as earth under the rain. They scheduled time for a youthful blush; she blended into vivid garnet hues. She is Errant Autumn, changing into every color they never expected, never wanted. Flowing like warm ink under skin, there are too many curves and golden veins of her own selection to make everyone else happy.
So she falls, fluttering down under all the âwrongâ trees, but keeps the brightest leaves on upper branches, vivid at the edges of her mind.
Errant Autumn has a patch the color of witch's blood, pumpkins of a strange mother, spilling tartly orange from the center (or simply meshing with the sweet potatoes, skin milky and white). She takes this time for herself to breathe in with satisfaction the same chilled air that makes anothers lungs hurt and nose run, lighting a bonfire to burn bright in the night and absorbing into her hair, so she is the scent of her own season.
