Autumn

The season turns inwards. The trees shake off their leaves, rid themselves of finery and jewels, turning towards the sky with dark and reaching fingers. Only the pure and empty handed enter the kingdom of winter. The sun makes diamonds between my lashes and the blue of the sky is a painter's puzzle.

Shade and sun push at each other as I pull out the last tomato plants and add them to the dried bean stalks that lie defeated on the driveway.

A man I was once in love with described nature as shrouding herself in fog in the winter, hiding away from the world so she could renew herself in peace and in private. That may have applied in his part of the world but here there is a sense of stripping bare, going to the bone, ridding ourselves of the superfluous. It is not only the trees. The grass and plants fold into themselves, dig towards the earth in a penance, kneeling to the soil can be the most humbling yet most fulfilling position. The sky alternates between the quick scrub of blue skies with fast clouds and thrashing rains, washing away all the dirt.

All to prepare for the austerity of winter, the frugality of colour, the chill in the bone.

Despite despising winter, I do see the beauty in it, but especially in nature's preparations.