Let me tell you an autumn story.
In the country, fall does not come in an instant--no season changes in a heartbeat. She comes slowly, dragging her long, fiery gown behind her. One night, it's warm, but not too warm. You wrap your long sweater about you, beneath a sickle moon, for when the wind blows, it's cold. Clouds scuttle across the sky, dodging stars, bright silver. You walk far out into the meadow with your dog, mindful of all the bunnies who would rather moonbathe themselves than be chased by a very fast Collie. Everything is bright, and all the cicadas sing, a symphony that melts with your heartbeat, the whispering leaves, the bright moonshine. You close your eyes, try to remember that moment forever.
The next night, it's colder. Only a few crickets play a melody, and the night is so dark it's as if there were never stars. The blackness is velvet, soothing, and in the center of the meadow the sky melts with the towering pine trees, and you hold out your hand before you, completely unable to see it. One cricket, then two, strike up a conversation. It's cold, you're barefoot, and you shiver--the dew is freezing against your skin.
The next night, there is silence. Pure, frozen silence. You're wearing a coat, and in the moonlight, you can see your breath. There are no clouds, just the galaxy reaching overhead, a broad band of stars that looks milk-white against the burnished heavens. The moon hangs low in the horizon, lazy. The grass crunches beneath your boots. The husks of the sunflowers dangle mournfully along the fence of the garden, and you worry about your last vegetables, wondering how long you dare before you take in the squash. In these last, ripening moments, you could lose everything to a hard frost if you wait too long--but if you don't wait long enough, it won't be what it could have been. This is what separates a gardener from someone who gardens, and you think about that for a moment, laugh, shake your head. It was something your grandmother said, and you wonder if it's true about you. You've always harvested at the perfect moment--you've just always known when. It might be genetic, it might be magic, it might be dumb luck. You look up at the moon, wrap the shawl tighter about your shoulders, breathing in the chill air, the scent of colored leaf and pine. It's all so crystalline, so clear, so wonderful. The dog chases a bunny who outpaces him easily, and you call him back. He bounds over, leans against your leg, staring up at the same moon, too. It's a heavenly communion for half a moment--a perfect autumn night.
On all these nights, you turn to go back in, and look at your cottage, nestled beneath the moonshine or that dark sky. The lights glow cozily, the cobalt walls reflecting the glow of candle or lampshade. There will be warm tea, waiting for you, and a wife who hugs you, sleepily, giving you the sweetest, softest, best goodnight kiss.
And, on nights like these, you stand, for a moment, basking in the moonglow, in that perfect moment. You have so very much to be grateful for, your heart can't contain it.
So you pray, thanking the Lady for these years, most amazing.
And you go inside.
In the country, fall does not come in an instant--no season changes in a heartbeat. She comes slowly, dragging her long, fiery gown behind her. One night, it's warm, but not too warm. You wrap your long sweater about you, beneath a sickle moon, for when the wind blows, it's cold. Clouds scuttle across the sky, dodging stars, bright silver. You walk far out into the meadow with your dog, mindful of all the bunnies who would rather moonbathe themselves than be chased by a very fast Collie. Everything is bright, and all the cicadas sing, a symphony that melts with your heartbeat, the whispering leaves, the bright moonshine. You close your eyes, try to remember that moment forever.
The next night, it's colder. Only a few crickets play a melody, and the night is so dark it's as if there were never stars. The blackness is velvet, soothing, and in the center of the meadow the sky melts with the towering pine trees, and you hold out your hand before you, completely unable to see it. One cricket, then two, strike up a conversation. It's cold, you're barefoot, and you shiver--the dew is freezing against your skin.
The next night, there is silence. Pure, frozen silence. You're wearing a coat, and in the moonlight, you can see your breath. There are no clouds, just the galaxy reaching overhead, a broad band of stars that looks milk-white against the burnished heavens. The moon hangs low in the horizon, lazy. The grass crunches beneath your boots. The husks of the sunflowers dangle mournfully along the fence of the garden, and you worry about your last vegetables, wondering how long you dare before you take in the squash. In these last, ripening moments, you could lose everything to a hard frost if you wait too long--but if you don't wait long enough, it won't be what it could have been. This is what separates a gardener from someone who gardens, and you think about that for a moment, laugh, shake your head. It was something your grandmother said, and you wonder if it's true about you. You've always harvested at the perfect moment--you've just always known when. It might be genetic, it might be magic, it might be dumb luck. You look up at the moon, wrap the shawl tighter about your shoulders, breathing in the chill air, the scent of colored leaf and pine. It's all so crystalline, so clear, so wonderful. The dog chases a bunny who outpaces him easily, and you call him back. He bounds over, leans against your leg, staring up at the same moon, too. It's a heavenly communion for half a moment--a perfect autumn night.
On all these nights, you turn to go back in, and look at your cottage, nestled beneath the moonshine or that dark sky. The lights glow cozily, the cobalt walls reflecting the glow of candle or lampshade. There will be warm tea, waiting for you, and a wife who hugs you, sleepily, giving you the sweetest, softest, best goodnight kiss.
And, on nights like these, you stand, for a moment, basking in the moonglow, in that perfect moment. You have so very much to be grateful for, your heart can't contain it.
So you pray, thanking the Lady for these years, most amazing.
And you go inside.