Good morning, Autumn.
This week, nights have progressed from air conditioned to windows open to windows shut. This morning the wood floor was cold beneath my feet and I donned my wool sweater.
Good afternoon, Autumn.
The yellow tomatoes taste like flowers. Sitting on our stoop after walking home from the farmers market, my 3-yr-old and I swap swigs from a quart of local cider, shuck raw cobs of sweet corn, and pop colorful cherry tomatoes into our mouths while the baby blows raspberries from her stroller seat. A sunflower the size of her face, that will soon grace my dining room, is tucked beside her.
Good evening, Autumn.
A fitting excerpt from E.B. White’s chapter, “Crickets,” in Charlotte’s Web comes to mind.
The crickets sang in the grasses. They sang the song of summer’s ending, a sad, monotonous song. “Summer is over and gone,” they sang. “Over and gone, over and gone. Summer is dying, dying.” The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last forever. Even on the most beautiful days in the whole year- the days when summer is changing into fall- the crickets spread the rumor of sadness and change. Everybody heard the song of the crickets… “Summer is over and gone,” repeated the crickets. “How many nights till frost?” sang the crickets. “Good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye!
