There is not a firm step in Autumn. The snowfall of bright falling leaves invites me to dream as I rake them into blankets for winter’s nursery.
The anger I so often carry in my steps surrenders to the sleepy hours of shorter days, the gentle voice of house slippers whispering across my bedroom floor.
This year of sterile rooms and moans quietly disappears into the mist of kinder memories, hot chocolate mornings that speak you don’t have to hurry now.
So many believe it is a new year that commands resolutions, new beginnings, but it is when trees explode into their confetti last hurrah I begin to feel the first flutter of new wings.
I love Autumn. I have since I was a child growing up in a tiny house surrounded by woods. I’ve spent so many years in sterile halls. It’s nature that comforts me like a prayer.