here we are again: a month has been wrestled from us, and has gone where they all go, in dishes, and dust, a good lot of work, and a bit of shut-eye.

It is fall, finally, in our cold noses. we have been waiting for this. I cup a mason jar of hot tea in my hands as I walk to the university in the mornings, and I relish the cold of everything but my hands, and then, in turn, the great warmth of my hands around the jar in the otherwise and early coldness.  There are bright-turned leaves aglow through the tea steam, rising. And squirrels digging up, and hiding again, their winter stores.  I can’t help but feel deeply held by it all.

it is trivial and overly romantic, in a way that feels younger than I am. And I articulate it, I’m sure, also in the heady language of youthfulness.  I don’t, right now, know what else to do with the beauty. I need it, and need to focus on it, for winter will be upon us, soon and too long.  This is the time to store up a bit of sweet light, of romance, of bright colors, of the end of the seasons bird calls and vegetables. they will too soon– all of them– be gone to grey. So I, too, dig and hide a winter storage. I preserve it, blanching, freezing, photographing, canning, writing pretty bits of it down. putting up for winter.