Song for Autumn

I am not ready for winter.  I am, to be honest, not yet ready for autumn and it is my favorite season.  I am not ready for Halloween.  I still feel like there is not enough sun warmth soaked into my bones.  Is this because I am getting old(er)?  Or is it because it was a crummy weather  summer in the NW?  Probably both.

The only real way to handle this growing cold weather apprehension is to meet it face on.  I need to remind myself all the things I love about autumn and the slow slide into winter.  I need to remind myself that I get a lovely gift in January and look forward to that time.  (I'm going to Africa again.)  So, here are a few of my favorite things about the autumn.

Leaves turning beautiful golden, red and russet colors and....

....really foggy days for walking ad thinking and breathing deeply....

....and making spiced cranberries for Thanksgiving and for gifting at Christmas.

I love finding abandoned bird's nests and adding them to my expanding collection.  They are so much easier to see once the leaves fall and I know the inhabitants have left for warmer climes further south.

All the autumn colors are especially wonderful at the cabin, where there are so many cedars and other evergreens to act as a foil for making the bright, fleeting hues pop.  It makes weekends spent there, cozy and snug, so beautiful and gives me something to look forward to all week long.

I love clear, frosty coooooold days.  They just pull me outside and make me want to explore.

I love the countdown to Christmas, especially lovely this autumn as all my children, their spouses and all the grands will be home with DH and me this special, special year.

And I love that my favorite poet, Mary Oliver, always has words that lift my heart and help me see things in a better light.

Song for Autumn 

In the deep fall
    don't you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
    the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
    freshets of wind? And don't you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
    warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
    inside their bodies? And don't you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
    the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
    vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
    its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
    the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.