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 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.” all the months in fall
The three months stood together, watching the forest shed its gold. Then came November, walking slowly, her hands wrapped