I like my autumn unpackaged–fresh. I love the crisp mornings (not that we’ve had very many yet) and I love all the colors of the season. The land is a full spectrum of golds, from palest cream of drying corn to the gilded fire of leaves lit by the sun. All of the farms, whether they’re big enough to have proper markets or just stands by the road, are all selling pumpkins and strange-looking gourds. Not pumpkin lattes, or pumpkin spice pedicures like in town (whaaaaat?), but actual lumpy, bumpy pumpkins that I can cut up and cook and make into pies.
My garden is gone, with the exception of a few winter squashes and marigolds that match the rest of the foliage. Regular deer hunting doesn’t start for weeks yet, but as the days shorten the local Odocoileus virginianus population is beginning to act crazier than usual. (Thankfully, none have been successful in the kamikaze maneuvers directed at my vehicle.) The woods smell sweet with wet leaves after the rain. I wanted to be married in this season, but I’m glad for the time to enjoy it instead, rather than rushing toward the altar. As an alternative, I’m praying for a light dusting on January 3rd and sipping hot cider in the meantime.
An Audacious Poet 