Voices
There was a time in my life when the autumnal shades of melancholia seemed to settle upon my cognizance as if they were the brittle leaves that that sensuous season litters upon the sidewalks and streets of our homes, neighborhoods and parks; and if the degree to which the melancholia weighed upon my mind is at all in proportion to a quantity of those shed leaves, then I would place this cerebral organ in a rich birch forest in the deepest woods of New England (my salutations to the ancestral home of the American fall) in late August, when the winds begin to carry a touch of venom, and the sun grows bashful, subjecting itself to public scrutiny for increasingly shorter and shorter periods of time.
By
the Voice Staff
February 14, 2002