And, now, Autumn

Autumn - 1 (1)


“I am made for autumn.  Summer and I have a fickle relationship, but everything about autumn is perfect for me.  Wooly jumpers, Wellington boot, scarves thin first, then thick, socks.  The low slanting light, the crisp mornings, the chill in my fingers, those last warm sunny days before the rain and the wind.  Her moody hues and subdued palate punctuated every now and again by a brilliant orange, scarlet or copper goodbye.  She is my true love.”  –Alys Fowler


The waves are roaring again this morning and the trees are swaying in the wind as a cold front moves in.  There’s even the suggestion of an early frost and a few snow flurries at the end of the week.  On Saturday, Carol and I hiked north of Whitefish, stopping to take photos of anything that read “Fall”, and we kept declaring it was the most perfect temperature and light.  And, Sunday, as I sat in the late afternoon sunshine at water’s edge, in that perfect temperature, I knew I was in “those last warm sunny days before the rain and the wind.”  This is my favorite season, and I have been mindful to wait for its arrival this year.  Summer is so wide and broad and exuberant, and I’ve slowly let it fade away, savoring the warmth.  But, now, it is truly Autumn.  I bought a cinderella pumpkin for the front door yesterday, and I’m itching to get my fall decor in place in the living room, with firewood stacked on the hearth.  But, now, I need to get ready for our trip to the sea, and all the splendors there… Autumn will still be waiting for me when I am back at home.

Song of Autumn by Mary Oliver

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think

of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

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