wednesday 's roses.
The step from August to autumn is a slow one around here. September's honeysuckle becomes October's honeysuckle and sprawls just the same along the bridge and the sides of the creek; the trees are still green and leaves fall only because there are moments of wind and rain. Never mind what the calendar says, seasons are births that come in their own time. Spring pushes against winter's envelope, tearing small holes that let blossoms fly through, but winter pushes back, always, always. Summer is always early, spring exhausted and willing to give way, autumn's birth gentle, gentle, a late baby here in Texas, warm long past the time we expect. Winter arrives with a surprise, with a fast drive through a cold night.
but today is autumn, and the temperature cools and warms and cools again - i wear thin sweaters under changing sunshine, and let my toes go bare and chilly in the mornings. they will be warm by afternoon. a continuation, a movement. the season of pumpkins and roses. the dragonflies have disappeared and the cat's breakfast was a butterfly. i was too slow to stop her.
the days and stars turn.
i was once a scorpio, but some say now a libra.
i stay silent and laugh to myself.
the shop around the corner?
it doesn't get much better.