The yellowing foliage falls down from the trees, piling on top of last years unraked leaves. The fresh memories of picking blueberries in July fades as the cool air of autumn invades the space of my home, the memories chilling my bones more than the crisp weather.
The daily chit chat turns from talks of what music festivals will be attended to getting the last of the artichokes at the farm stand, and how many tomatoes shall I can to get me through the winter.
Preparation is at its peak as we hope to keep ourselves warm and fat through the lean bleak gray days that come ahead. I try to take in as much of the color as possible, though the rain deadens their bright September offerings all too early, giving the greens, golds, reds, and magentas a browning dullness.
I'm too busy trying to stay afloat with packing to move, preserving food, preserving sanity, and earning money to enjoy the changeover completely. With a heart heavily bent on change, my emotional summer is quieting down and my spirit mirrors the leaves. The most beautiful time of year skipping its own evolution of color and simply shifting to drooping burnt leaf.
I sit clipping my personal harvest of the summer's offerings that I helped to bring forth from the earth. I have hours to reflect on my hope in seeing the bright colors. It remains strong, though it resides in the smallest corner of my heart and mind. My eyes must not be my only guide in this hope. Faith lies in feeling the clean, crisp night air brushing my ill-outfitted skin, in the sounds of the gray fox crying for a mate before winter in my front yard, in the completion of my nervously grown harvest I hope to get me through winter, in the chipmunk's scavenging scurry through the brush, and in the fact that I get to try again next time we circle around the sun.
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