It's not that I don't love autumn. I want to convince her that I
do — the way my soul takes on the interior golden hue; the crisp chill and the simple need for a sweater; the husks of leaves collecting daily. Once green up there — those youngins — now old caskets turning to dust under my feet down here - on the street, on the pavement. I love these things! They are the familiar rhymes of poems that have always made sense to me. But my bones remember the menopause of winter. Barren skeletons of trees against the steely mirror of the sky and my marrow freezes, anticipates the chill of death when God is forgotten. The fire is out and water runs cold from the faucet. It's time to collect my friends. My birthday is coming and it's always the rallying call each year. Halloween, All Soul’s Day, Day of the Dead. Come, let us go into winter together. Light a fire in the middle of our circle. The central hearth that has always kept us warm.
