My dearest October,
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. No, really. I've been meaning to tell you...
First, there is your light. That particular, impertinent light that pours through my breakfast window until I must abandon my seat, defeated by its brilliance. And on the road, how you contrive to blind me one moment, then stretch the shadow of my car impossibly far ahead of me the next.
I notice my own shadow when I walk through the woods, too. You do have a way of making a person look, you minx.
And your leaves. O, your leaves! I wait for them to make up their minds, for the last of the green to drain away and the real business to begin. Each year you devise a different palette. This year, mustard and muted orange prevail, as though the whole landscape has been run through some peculiar filter... until suddenly, there are these outrageous flares of red. You are not always predictable, my love, but you are never boring!
And by the way, I adore the way those leaves change their bodies. Once succulent and supple, they grow thin, crumpled, papery. They let go of the branches and gather beneath my feet, making a music that grows more satisfying with every passing week. Even the wind sounds different moving through them. You are forever changing the instruments and tempting me to listen.
You are a terrible tease, Dearest, when it comes to temperature. I dress for the morning's frost, then shed my layers by noon. At night, I open the windows to your cold air and burrow into thick pajamas and socks, letting the chill pour over my face while the rest of me is gloriously toasty.
From that warm little nest, I hear the coyotes calling to one another in the darkness. The insects are still rasping away, stubborn little creatures who have apparently received no notice that their season is ending. The birds are still here, too, though their songs grow less frequent. I find myself listening harder, completely enraptured.
And you have not taken all your flowers away. How generous! The mums are still putting on their extravagant displays, and the asters offering up their little stars. You bring us pumpkins and gourds, including those magnificent warty specimens that look as though they've been growing secrets. You give us cinnamon and nutmeg, hoodies and sweatshirts, candies and sweet meats, and the entirely reasonable excuse for a grown woman to purchase yet another costume.
I could go on...
And I will!
O, your moon, my darling!
She is something else in October, isn't she? Enormous, luminous, positively incandescent in her beauty. She spills herself across the darkening landscape, taking over the latter part of the day. Sometimes she lingers into the morning, pale and unrepentant, as though the night has been far too good to leave behind.
I don't know what she's up to, and I don't particularly care to ask. I am content to be dazzled.
My dearest October, I know you are on your way out. The leaves are collecting along the roadsides, the mornings grow colder, and bare branches begin to show through the thinning canopy. I won't ask you to stay beyond your season. I know better than to make demands of someone so extravagantly themselves.
But while you're here, let me have all of it.
Blind me at breakfast. Set the trees ablaze, or mute them into strange and lovely shades. Give me leaves enough to crunch beneath my feet, cold air enough to kiss my face, and a moon so beautiful I am struck dumb.
I am yours, October.
Entirely, ridiculously, with leaves in my hair and no regrets.