Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,
Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi
Mais mon amour silencieux et fidèle
Sourit toujours et remercie la vie
—Jacques Prévert, Les feuilles mortes
The leaves shuffle past on the sidewalk, and all I can think about is how, every single day, the weather can be so different, so uniquely beautiful.
An accoutrement, she calls herself. An intelligent, energetic, passionate accessory, what better bijou? So I wear her on my arm, along with my ribbed sweater and dependable jeans, while walking along the streets on a comfortably cool afternoon.
The autumn days are ours.