Autumn is the wealthiest time.
Oh, winter is regal, but dull. In its time of gloom, it bleaches the gritty ground white to reflect a blue-gray sky, that pours down indolent cinder trails into red brick and flagstone chimneys.
And spring - springs from this lull, dancing like an unseasoned child too festive for its own good, splashing carelessly its random colors like stolen toys it’ll never have again. For all its youth, spring isn’t king.
Summer, now it’s getting warm. In a blaze it blooms the belated flowers that waited for a mature birth, to be burned…and savored by the breeze that bares its name, in the sun’s full glory that only it can bear.
But autumn is the wealthiest time.
She’s seen the others' intensity, all their tints and tones, then chose wisely her single color. While they dithered in dazzle, she glitters her subjects in riches they can’t match – the world’s awash in her time of ever melting gold.
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