By Martin Jacobsen
Her name is Summer, yet she is a Dame of Fall. Like a deciduous autumn tree, her understated stateliness, firm and reaching upward, presides over her russet hair, and ivory skin in the same way branches undergird similarly colored leaves. Like those leaves, she presents shades of being that detach and give way to the next, hues hewn from her spirit in much the same way she has hewn her thick, flowing hair to herald her ever-active emancipation from the Summer before, a sacrifice descending like leaves to the Earth to nourish the next stage of stately growth, forever firm and reaching upward, seeking the Summer elements from which to again flower verdantly toward the burst of colors she will release and from which she will derive sustenance, the sustenance of her own power.
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