I’m not sure where the summer went exactly. I think I spent too much time indoors and didn’t play with the sunshine enough, and so it sulked away and has gone hiding behind the clouds like a petulant child.
Now comes the cold, and the damp and the darkness.
Now comes the annual reminder of mortality, now comes the pretty leaves; nature’s deceptive statement on the beauty of death.
We’ll revel in the smell of cinnamon and pumpkin pie, and we’ll tell each other scary stories around a fire, as the wind outside laughs at us. When we are dead and gone, it will still be frightening children with its ghastly howling.
Soon we will go to work in darkness, and return home in darkness, and we’ll step outside whenever we can to soak in whatever daylight is available.
Soon everything will be brown and orange and yellow and red — the colours of fire and of dying leaves — and each fall that comes and goes seems to burn just a little more of my heart wood away.
Autumn is the death of summer and the harbinger of winter, and it is about as welcome as a door to door evangelist as far as I am concerned. Neither have any good news that I care to hear.