I received a visit from a muse on this fine day. She has visited me for the past 18 years, but it was not until today that I’ve truly taken the time to appreciate her.

Feeling trapped under the pressure of texts by Kafka and Camus, as well as an essay and this very article, I glanced toward the window looking for an escape. In the form of colorful leaves and a brisk blue sky, I received the inspiration I was looking for.

I’m a man for all seasons, but fall has always been something different. Not only does she contain my birthday, but she’s very different from her sisters. She’s not harsh and deranged like summer, cold and uncaring as winter or as self-important and boisterous as spring. Fall is gentle, giving and never overbearing.

She seems to know me so well, as every gift she gives is just what I want. Those comfortable sweatshirt days, the warm colors and the lazy atmosphere all fill me with delight. But I’ve been cruel to her. I greedily take her presents and show no emotion toward the donor. I would like to take this time to formally apologize to my love.

Consider this article my cry from the rooftops as I place fall on a pedestal for all to admire. I implore all of you who hear my call to take advantage of all the gifts that she leaves for us, as our happiness is her happiness.

Let us admire the literal fruits of her labor: those pumpkins and apples which beckon us to the fields and make us all farmers for an hour or two. We adorn our sweaters and comfy jeans and, as a gleeful group, make our way to the farms. Right when I walk out of the door, the cool air tickles my face ‘ 100 kisses from my seasonal love.

Outside the farms are wooden signs which beg us to enter, but they are frivolous. Fall’s siren-song has already hit our ears. It’s the best sort of advertising men and women of agriculture can get.

We scour the artificial forests for the brightest of apples, only pausing to climb trees that seem to be made for it. As we laugh I can hear her laugh along with us. It rustles through the trees.

Whether we go by foot or take a relaxing tractor ride, we gather our spoils and head to the pumpkin patch. The phrase bounces off the tongue with playful alliteration as we say it.

Every pumpkin has its own personality and yearns to be loved, just as fall loves us. Unfortunately, not all make the cut. There can only be a chosen few, with perfect stems and unblemished skin. They will later be mutilated and gutted, but ultimately given new life.

The soothing autumn evening rolls in, but we’re still hungry for excitement. A haunted house satiates our appetites as a new scare waits around every corner. With our hands in each others’, our human train lightheartedly plows through.

As the night comes to a close, all one can do is look up into the cloudless sky and have a staring contest with the stars.

Enjoy your time with fall, because the seasonal fling will end just as quickly as it began. Winter’s jealous bite will tear apart your last embrace and she’ll place her frigid hands in yours. And you must bare three more abusive relationships before you get your dear autumn back.