It is autumn, occasional chill begging a blanket’s comfort, occasional warmth reviving sandal straps. These are unpredictable days, suspended somewhere between bronze and silver. Foggy morning mist gives way, perhaps, to unexpected sun. But, then again, maybe not. Clarity may lurk just out of reach.
It is hard to feel settled in this season, the languid folly of summer put to bed, the certain chisel of winter lying ahead. Is this day achy with longing, or simply achy with age? It is hard to tell, in these shifting hours.
This should be harvest season, crowned with a bright harvest moon. It is time, now, to reap what was sown, time to collect the long-awaited bounty from spring buds that ripened to August bloom, autumn fruit.
What will this strange flower do, now that its golden season has arrived? Will it wither at first frost, like cosmos, or hide in hibernation, like chrysanthemum? Perhaps it will be like a camellia, waiting for November to show its splendor, when all the other flowers have gone to seed.