The rust color leaves crunch beneath the soles of my leather boots, as I nuzzle my face into my wool knit scarf. The beaten asphalt path is the canvas and the pomegranate leaves are the splattered drops of paint sprinkling the trail. The cold, biting winds of autumn strip the weeping willow trees of their tears. Drooping, bent branches of the willows and birches beg for me to stray from the path into their welcoming, bark-covered embrace, promising not a single splinter. Whirlwinds of crispy leaves grace the peaks and valleys of the meadows, with so much life instilled in their dying veins. The nostalgic hint of chimney smoke wafts along the trail, and I yearn for the warmth that will nourish my chapped face. With a warm core and the wind seeping into the layers of my skin, the splitting wood of the maple branches guide me home.