Following the intensity of summer, and before the cold, dark days of winter, autumn tiptoes in, bringing with her a palette with shades of orange, umber, and gold to dress deciduous tree leaves in for one last glorious show before they let go and fall into a crispy blanket on the ground.
I love that we live in a place with four distinct seasons, and autumn has become my favourite. Summer seems like a whole lot of too much. Winter starts to wear after a few months—especially here in Saskatchewan. Spring is something special; I’ll grant that. But autumn, now that’s something rich.
In the first hours of the day, when it’s still dark outside, I sit under a blanket sipping tea from my morning mug, reading autumn poems from a volume of Jane Kenyon’s work and writing (at least) one bad poem of my own, firm in my belief that a bad poem is better than no poem at all, and knowing I can’t rework something that hasn’t been written.
Later, I eye the latest picking of tomatoes on my kitchen counter with less than enthusiasm. Remembering the thrill of that first Black Krim tomato sandwich of the summer, I smile at how delight has turned into weariness of the overabundance.
Should I make another batch of tomato soup? Roast them? Maybe another big pot of pasta sauce for the freezer? I decide on a simple tomato sauce to use in soups over the winter and get busy chopping, simmering, straining seeds, and simmering some more. Tomorrow I’ll pick some more and go through the whole decision-making dance again.
One day this week, I stood on a bridge watching golden, crunchy leaves carried along by the current like tiny fairy boats. I was mesmerized by the algae along the bank—a masterpiece of shades of green in whirls and ripples, dotted with floating leaves for interest.
Molly and I walked along a path where the light was nothing short of magical. I stopped to take a photo, knowing the image wouldn’t capture the wonder, but feeling the need to do it, anyway.
Right now, the wind is blowing hard enough to keep me from going out into the yard and picking more tomatoes or pulling the zinnias. Instead, I’m here with a mug of milky coffee about to get lost in a book.
These days are good ones. Joy-sparkers are everywhere. We have only to keep our eyes and hearts open to see them.