But every year, they return. First the teacher, then the trickster, then the quiet one. Together they remind us: fall is not an ending. It is a long, slow, beautiful turning—a season of letting go, so something new can dream beneath the snow.
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. But every year, they return
All the months of fall—September, October, and November—gathered one last time before winter’s chill swept the land. They met at the edge of the old maple forest, where the leaves had already begun their slow, fiery transformation. It is a long, slow, beautiful turning—a season