I’m happy for everyone who is so eager to embrace their favorite season. Truly, I am. And it’s not that I don’t like fall. Early autumn is quite lovely when the sun begins to lower in the sky and bathes everything in a golden glow. And I do look forward to those first few mildly cool and rainy days because there is little I like better than curling up under a quilt with a steaming cup of tea and a good book and that’s the best weather for it.
Photo by Deanna Piercy, taken on my parents’ land
My Facebook feed is full of people all excited about fall. They are sharing pumpkin latte recipes and talking about decorating for Halloween. My Pinterest feed is rife with knitted scarves, hearty soup recipes, and crafts made with fall leaves. I went to visit my parents’ a few days ago and my mom had taken fall decorating to a level rarely seen when temperatures are still frequently in the upper 90s.
However, there’s something about that first leaf I see flutter to the ground that fills me with sorrow and even a bit of dread because of the coming winter. I do my best to talk myself out of it but the truth is I am a summer girl. I was beginning to think I was alone in this until Melanie, a Facebook friend, shared this poem:
by Mary Jo Salter
How hard it is to take September
straight—not as a harbinger
of something harder.
Merely like suds in the air, cool scent
scrubbed clean of meaning—or innocent
of the cold thing coldly meant.
How hard the heart tugs at the end
of summer, and longs to haul it in
when it flies out of hand
at the prompting of the first mild breeze.
It leaves us by degrees
only, but for one who sees
summer as an absolute,
Pure State of Light and Heat, the height
to which one cannot raise a doubt,
as soon as one leaf’s off the tree
no day following can fall free
of the drift of melancholy.
And that, my friends, sums it up perfectly.