Autumn is my season, signed with my name: my time, not only of the year, but of the day, with the twilight hour not gray, but steeped in bold fuschias, violets and the rich purples of the ``hour between dog and wolf'' - mysterious, haunting, filled with expectation. Autumn too wears colors not in mourning hues, but the wheat-gold, apple-red and the bubbling burgundy of Homer's wine-dark sea. Leaves ripen and fall, crisp, crackling underfoot. A sprinkling of ghosts and vampires are among the masquerading children, with autumn their time too as they ring my bell and fill their totes with sweets.
``All things in their season'' the Bible says. And Autumn wears my signature - signed with a flourish.