On the Dying Shades, a Passage -- by Alex Ranieri

Now is the time for asters and tawny grasses. Some would defy the dying of the year—they paint their lawns with neon impatiens and mums. But the eye is tired as the earth, and longs to rest—the asters, blue as twilight, and the grasses, gold as sunset, are better suited to our taste and time than the bright pinks and scarlets of the middle of the day. If we long yet for glory, we must look to the trees—for here are not the gay, painted shades that strive for eternal youth. The maples, as their foliage withers, recall the culmination of a tragic play. They make the same heroic speech, which seems, while defying fear of death, to long still bitterly, for a little space, for life.