by Anwesha Mukherjee

A path with trees and lights

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Photo by Daniel J. Schwarz


That’s what it was

The Poet’s Palette

The splashes of fuchsia

The hues of blue

And now it’s here

The Palette turns

It’s the sparks of saffron

The tinge of buttercups

It’s mists of green fading in the gleam of gold

But after all, it’s the Poet’s Palette.

And so,

The Poet turns


That the whispered secrets,

The crumbling promises,

And the fading tales

Would tread nature’s final call

The autumn breeze, a whispered sigh.

Let me, like the withered leaves,

The azured branches,

And the season’s end,

Find a bittersweet embrace

In nature’s quiet, ever-changing grace.

As the lazy days of summer give way to the crisp embrace of autumn, we witness a magnificent conjuring. Trees of the vibrant greens suddenly bare tapestries of reds, oranges, and yellows. The brisk breeze and pumpkin spice lattes make their triumphant return. But beyond the pumpkin patches and cozy sweaters, Fall offers a profound lesson in change – a lesson we seek to capture in our verses.

Sometimes, we find ourselves challenged at every step of the way to start anew: to leave behind the time of our lives and step into a ship voyaging into uncharted waters. Fall serves as a poignantly subtle reminder that, just as the trees surrender their leaves to make way for rejuvenation, we, too, must let go of the old to make way for the new. Fall tells us that change, even when tinged with nostalgia, can be breathtakingly beautiful.

This then gives way to the idea of finding permanence in impermanence, imparting invaluable lessons of accepting the inevitable and embracing life’s transitions with gratitude. In the tapestry of fall’s warm hues and the gentle rustling of leaves, there lie lessons that invite us to embrace change, express gratitude, reflect, come together, and let go. While we savour the beauty of this season, let us also savour the wisdom it imparts, enriching our lives in ways that transcend the fleeting nature of Fall itself.

As the pages of our diary turn, the ink of our past chronicles darkens as it seeps in, and novel parchments of tales present themselves at our disposal, waiting to be written in…

Waiting to be painted with.

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