I thought about corn today—hot, buttered corn—fresh on the cob. It practically made my mouth water in anticipation.
Husking—oh, how I love that word.
It also made me think of autumn. That canonical closing of the year when the air grows chill, the days begin to grow shorter, and the trees take on the fireworkian hues of amber and gold displays for days—or even weeks on end —before becoming stark and bare, their skeletal arms then reaching toward ashen skies, and the wintery desolation which awaits in the wings and slowing of life before the winds bring with them the blusterings of white.
…the proverbial closing of the year.
But for now, orange crème pumpkins sit in the fields, waiting to be gathered in before the frost. Gardens are burgeoning with their bounty—zucchini will be left on doorsteps, and piles of leaves anticipate their moments to be raked together and leapt in, children swimming in their sea of multicolored wonder.
“Autumn is where my heart belongs, where it can be tempered by the early snows of winter and bound to the beauty of fallen, dead leaves. The air has a bite and the wind a fierce howl, driving you to the comforts that are so often left by the wayside: the hot cups of coffee, tea, and cider, the warm bowls of oats, and the sublime feeling of being wrapped in a blanket in front of a roaring fire, a book firmly grasped in hand. Yes, this is the season for me, where my soul is content, where I belong.”
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