Short stories and poems

Autumn is Your love letter to me.

"'Thank you for everything.' I tell him through the tears twinkling like crystals in my eyes as He cradles me with the tenderest and most gentle arms."

I think that the trees look most beautiful in the early Autumn days, even though their leaves wither and crinkle and the petals of the blossoms fall like tears in the breeze. My eyes cannot seem to look away.

In all honesty, I used to tell people that Spring was my favourite season. One moment, the bare branches are shivering in the face of the chilling wind, but, within the blink of the eye, my orbs glisten with admiration and mesmirisation, dainty feet pausing as my gaze flitters towards the four trees that stand tall outside my house, intricately adorned with blossoms that remind me of milk and cream.

The grass looks more lush and the azure sky stretches over my head as a glossy veil whilst the wisps of clouds trail through the air with a soft sigh, hesitating to pass close to the radiant sun, whose golden gleams of light stream down onto the Earth, teasingly brushing its gentle fingers through my hair and coating my dark locks in a chestnut hue as if they were chocolate melting under the relentless heat on a Summer's day.

I often hear the birds cheerfully whistle and chirp at each other every morning in the Spring, perching themselves on the rooves of houses and singing songs of worship to the Lord in hopes that the human ear would hear and the human heart to soften with love and adoration.

They still sing in the Autumn, even when many things seem to begin to die, including the leaves that illuminate so breathtakingly in the presence of the light.

Their fragile fingers cling so delicately onto the rough surfaces of the branches as golden and orange hues bleed through their bodies, though they'd never suspect a thing, especially when the pain is no where to be found — neither do they have mirrors to scrutinise at every wrinkle and blemish.

Sweet chirps find their way to my ears as my eyes flutter open every morning by the loving touch of the Father, who has placed His warm palms on either side of my face and pressed a light kiss on my forehead, before stroking the top of my head, the gentlest smile to have ever been shown towards me in the entirety of my life resting willingly on His shining face. It's only a shame that I always seem to miss it as I wake up from my dreams and am only met with the outstretched arms of the sun peeking through my bedroom window.

I like how the leaves persist, even when the breezes gradually turn into forceful gusts of ice as the weeks rush through in a blur, unnerving, as they whistle past the windows of homes.

My eyes wander up towards the many golden leaves that flutter in the wind, firm grips that are as tough as steel, dried and shrivelled, yet beaming with colour amid the darkening sky.

Peach, orange, yellow — they are colours that I love the most, so warm and comforting, they remind me of the sun because its light brings relief and hope into my days when I'm afraid of the darkness that lingers in the cracks of my life, drying the liquid crystals that have slipped from the corners of my eyes and have managed to slide down my pink cheeks.

I love all of this because it reminds me of God, full of radiance and hope despite the wrinkles etched into my soul.

I can't help the glimmer in my orbs that twinkles like the brightest star in the night sky; the fire cannot be extinguished because He has overcome the world and, the best part is, He has laced his fingers with mine and walks me through the garden like a father leading their stumbling but precious child.