The pond hasn’t iced yet though the morning sparkles with cold it’s not enough for frost. We still haven’t shifted away the last of the summer clothes, lit the first fire, layed down the feathered quilt. We’re on the bridge of seasons amidst whirring leaves swirling to the ground. Autumn’s peak has passed but it still hasn’t all turned brown. There are moments of brilliance – flame filled orange against cloudless blue.
But I’m ready to draw the lines of sight into my own center, ready to pull in the chords of day into a long stillness . To simmer a pot of soup on the stove, put logs to the fire. Make my own warmth, a small easy glow of my very own light. Ready to gather in the long nights, the silhouettes of trees reaching towards the early rising of the stars.
It’s not that I love winter or cold. It’s the lengthening I long for, the layers of clothes and covers, the turning in. By the time the gray days become routine and the sun has set too early and risen too late more times than I can count I’ll be searching the horizon for spring. I’ll welcome shedding the muffling I’ve wrapped myself in. But just now the darkening feels like a long low sigh, a slow quiet, a blessing.