Autumn's hedges weep blood again, the eternal mystery of red leaves confounding reason, protecting and surrounding us either in gentle beauty or concealed sorrows we never knew. Theories of our own existences are proved certainties only by the imprecision of tears as we've lived. Rage the year. The dead season, still, nears; we too, should paint it anew in bold color and embrace it without fear.
Botany has yet to develop adequate scientific theory for the color red in the season's leaves, as it seems an otherwise pointless expense of energy for plants preparing for winter. As if everything should need that measure of reason - even this simple act of expression declares being.