Bittersweet

It comes in whispers, this autumn thing.
When suddenly the leaves are piled against the barn in golden mounds, stirring with the breeze. Or floating, floating down from treetop heights, spiraling softly across the grass.
The colors fade; the skeletons of empty trees reveal the backbone of distant ridges.
Everything is slowly sliding into gray.
It brings a respite from the labor of the harvest.  The implements of summer are stored and locked away. A few gentle days of rest, songs of thankfulness for what the earth has provided.

But also a foreboding.  The earth is letting go and giving in.  Winter looms.

So I gather the vines, and twist them into an unruly circle, hang them on the door, and sigh. A tribute to the end of things.   Is this why they are called Bittersweet?