Autumn is a woman taking her clothes off. The sun falling upon the leaves of her garments, her cheeks and fine clothes blush one more time before she starts taking off the beautiful layers of summer. Summer-green pumpkin vines bulge with warm orange, and corn husks open to reveal checkered orange and rust-red. She unfolds her arms and apples come spilling out into pie crusts and cider pitchers, herself a cornucopia of bounty. She laughs in the plenty and dusts her hands on her cornfield apron. She smiles first when someone bites into that tart early apple. There is always a piece of hay in her hair and a pie on her sill. Her scent is sweet in the corn maze and the child's trick-or-treat bag; she smells of warmth and change. But she never visits long, with her rosy orange cheeks and gentle breath. Because Autumn is a woman taking her clothes off. And the apple trees are shaken and picked clean, and the pumpkin vines shrivel and turn brown, and every day another tree loses ...