Every spring, I question if fall really is my favorite season. Especially here. After the dreary, heavy, endless New England winter that exhausted even my love of the crisp cold, there's something about the world regaining it's color that is nothing short of magical. It's as if I'd forgotten what certain colors looked like, and all of a sudden seeing gold and cream and magenta and emerald painting the trees gets my head spinning and my eyes popping out of my head with glee.
Even the tiniest taste of warmth is intoxicating. The northern chill still hangs in the air in the form of a sudden breeze or in dim patches of shade, but there are patches of sunlight where even the slightest shadow of cold is banished, and there's nothing but beautiful warmth. My skin is a sponge, soaking up every bit of it that my being can hold.
Soon I will be in bright, humid Virginia where the heat will hang around me like a blanket and lull me into constant drowsiness, but right now it is a gentle pair of arms, lifting me out of my winter slumber, shaking my shoulders and nudging my walk into a skip everywhere I go. It's wondrous.
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