Autumn wins. Autumn always wins. But that’s just because Spring doesn’t need to play the game, and Autumn knows it and hates that.
Spring’s got that devil-may-care in its eye - it knows what’s brewing: arms bursting with blossoms, ideas of life scattered creeping out of shuttered, wet places. It’s audacious but it’s still finding its feet: summer is where the party’s at, spring’s chill with the setup. Spring has a song in its head and can’t stop dancing, doesn’t care.
Autumn’s got a mean, fatalistic streak: every breath burnt with a sigh for what’s to come, even as it is falling over itself with the harvest, hoarded for colder days. It’s giving form to the yet-unborn selflessly, seeds whispering quiet dreams of spring. Autumn is worrying and accepting and feeling the chill of inevitable stillness. Autumn shakes its head, wisdom lingering in its smile: the sunshine in a pumpkin is every bit as good as the real thing. And really, everything gets better once you let go of the fear.
Autumn wins when it’s spring. Spring just runs.