Hot tea.
Cold mornings.
Leaves crunching under my boots.
Socks, my feet encased in warmth.
Cold water running through the creeks;
Birds flying in formation overhead.
Pumpkins, and sweet potatoes from the garden.

The last tomato.
Planting the garlic.
Frost on the grass.
The promise of winter, a chill on the wind.
Shrugging into my jacket; shoving my hat down over my ears.
My birthday.
Bright, school bus yellow on my way to work, reds, golds, browns, and greens.
Putting the garden to bed.
Turning the furnace on.
Warming my hands on the radiators.
Baking bread to heat the kitchen.

Goodbye, tank tops, short sleeves, shorts.
Switching out my summer clothes with my winter clothes.
Inspecting my cashmere sweaters for holes.
Hot tea. There's always hot tea.
The geese honking overhead.
Cold in the morning, hot by noon.
Corn harvested in the fields.
Unfolding my wool quilt to put onto my bed.
Waking up after a five-cat-night. (Or maybe six.)

Halloween, where there's always a promise of that-which-is-not-known.
Pumpkin pie.
Craft Shows!
More hot tea. Of course.
Storm windows down, windows shut for the season.
Happiness is Autumn.


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