Ah how I love this time of the year! How I love the slow and calibrated passage of time and the scent of ripe fruit on trees and vines.
I spend my hours going out and coming in—drinking in all the beauty of the season, every glory ripening to autumnal melodies and to the mellow sunshine of October…
I fill each bird station and marveled at birds. Do they have enough? What a joy that You, oh precious Father do not see as man sees and that your measuring is perfect.
There’s a feel of desolation and beauty on everything, and this melancholy that’s felt in the atmosphere has its own voice—it satisfies and fills the deepest parts of one’s soul—effortlessly and beautifully.
The quality of the light is pure magic, unpolluted purity and mellowness that calms and intrigues the soul, and I want to live here; live in the oblong and elliptical leaves of the black-eyed Susan and in the bluish pods growing in the Virginia creeper vines this time of the year…
I want to be a Silvery Checkerspot butterfly, be a bird and sing the song of the Red-winged Blackbird; the dark purple disk florets of late perennials be my home. I want to be a Paradise rose and attract bees and butterflies and be the main pollinator of autumnal plants. It’s all to do with my heart… you see, this heart cannot be other than the dream of the dreamer and the house of the idealist.
Roses have been frozen in time… perched as they are on bushes gone to sleep, and the beauty of dried petals are infinitively lovelier and dreamier than those of summer roses.
I am enamored… deep in love with October and with those autumnal days of the month which birthed me… I could had not come into this world in another month other than in October. For I am October and October I. I am its mystery and enchantment the howling wind and empty trees.