Posted by: tlnemethy | October 29, 2013

Descent. A Loss in Elevation.

Fall. The act of losing elevation. A descent. But it could also be a season bathed in pumpkin spice and a medley of foliage. Maybe that’s why fall is named as it is… the descent of leaves from their treetops. It is an act, but also an embodiment of change. The curtain closing on another pass of seasons. It is my favorite.DSCF0262

I’ve got a tickle in my throat right now, a barely there irritation that spells climate shifts and my stubbornness for not wanting to put on pants, to hold onto the summer. I don’t know why I hold so tightly every year. Fall is my season. Fall is when I feel the most connected to my environment, to the small moments of frost glimmering along the surface of the grass, but I also feel the most disconnected from my family, usually so many states of fallen leaves away from me.

There’s a distinctive crinkle underneath your footsteps the moment you can officially call fall. It’s crisp and clear and completely undeniable. Usually my feet begin to tingle on hardwood flooring or chilled tiles, the cold seeping up my limbs and into the very core of me. But it’s a cold I welcome, an alertness is borne and a vigor is produced. There is motivation to move in the outdoors, if only to just warm yourself. Today, the sky is a murky gray that lightens over the distant treetops into the possibility of brightness. It drizzles. And every now and then a small flurry of leaves are shaken from their fingertip grip on a branch. The beauty is undeniable.

If you lurk long enough in one certain spot, long enough to listen with a raptness that surprises even you, you’ll find that the lapping of currents can be heard from the near banks of the river . Or the flickering of cow hide as they crowd together with raindrops making their fur glossy and slicked. The flies aren’t out today. The air too seems huddled in stillness, like it’s snug in the warmth of itself. Still.

I have the distinctive desire to carve a pumpkin. But we don’t have any pumpkins on the farm. Maybe I’ll carve a watermelon or a butternut squash. We have enough of those. I don’t want to return home when it is slushy or the dreary colors of day-after-snow. Home is not home unless it’s fall. Forgive me my absence for yet another of your perfect seasons. Set the table one place shy and hang up one less jacket on that peg by the door. For now, only for now.

Because with me arrives the scent of tangy squash and spiced apples, grown with care and ready to make my arrival the colors of oranges and yellows and browns that were dearly missed.

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