Christmas Between Us

The woods are waning. Bright color collects on the forest floor, one thin, papery, note at a time. I see myself in this season – slowly falling apart in ecstatic beauty. I am the precursor to January and yet, cannot ever cross its icy threshold. I have the bluest sky and a moon on fire. I am harvest and fertile seed. I am wood smoke rising and hot-soup-cuddles on the couch. I am the never mistaken sign of a long slumber ahead.

I am reborn and die every October. I can never stay as long as I want and I can never leave without genuflecting to the natural order of things. In between us is Christmas. It is only in His manger shall we meet.

Another day of cold rains. Maples are the only radiant light for now and I am never not grateful. Yellow crowns everywhere.

Each weekend until it snows will now be raking and managing leaves. I'm pretty sure that is not natural. How can I do better? I am twisted and wrung over oaken barrels.

Now it is time to get dressed; go to work; go to bed; sleep a little; wake tired; go to work.