September smiled, weaving a crown of dried lavender. “And without my beginning, there would be no story at all.”
October draped an arm around her. “Without your stillness, no one would notice my fire.” all the months in fall
Then came November, walking slowly, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. She wore gray and brown, the colors of bare branches and sleeping earth. Her eyes were quiet, and she carried a single, withered leaf in her palm. “I bring the end,” she whispered. “The last apple on the bough, the foggy mornings, the feast where we gather close. I bring the remembrance of all that has passed, and the first hard frost that tells the seeds: rest now.” September smiled, weaving a crown of dried lavender
September arrived first, smelling of fresh pencils and ripe apples. She carried a basket of goldenrod and the first cool breeze off the mountains. Her hair was the color of wheat, and her footsteps left behind a gentle crispness in the air. “I bring the beginning,” she said softly, touching the tips of the maples. “The slow goodbye to summer. The first day of school. The harvest moon rising like a copper coin.” She wore gray and brown, the colors of
October burst from the woods, laughing. His cloak was patched with orange pumpkins and crimson vines, and his breath smelled of woodsmoke and cinnamon. He spun in a circle, sending a whirlwind of scarlet and amber leaves into the air. “I bring the peak!” he shouted. “The cider pressing, the hayrides, the night when the veil grows thin. I bring the spook and the spark, the jack-o’-lantern’s grin, and the final, glorious riot of color before the trees let go.”
But every year, they return. First the teacher, then the trickster, then the quiet one. Together they remind us: fall is not an ending. It is a long, slow, beautiful turning—a season of letting go, so something new can dream beneath the snow.
“They always blame me for the sadness,” November murmured.