September Morning

The first of September is a good day in my world, conjuring up promises: the promise of a glorious fall; the promise of new routines, new menus, new adventures; the promise of possibilities – endless possibilities; the promise of change, electric and static in the air.

I love summer, I do. All the seasons actually. I feel blessed to live here where they vary, sometimes dissolving into one another as Spring becomes Summer; sometimes striking unexpectedly as when an October snowstorm turns Fall into Winter overnight.

But if I have a favourite, it is Autumn. Fabulous autumn with its colour and vibrancy. Crisp days and the smell of apples on the air. Making soups and eating them hot on the veranda, a rug around your shoulders against the chill. The crack of a bonfire and the smell of woodsmoke as the last of the yard clearing is completed. The herbs hanging to dry, their subtle pungency wafting across the kitchen in the breeze. Piles of crimson and golden leaves under the maple trees. The gardens cut back, the vegetables harvested and the ground tilled in neat rows, next year's garlic in the wheelbarrow ready to be planted before the frost. Wearing an old faded pair of jeans and a colourful wool sweater to go for a hike through the woods and then come back and watch the early sunset over the fields.

Today is still Summer. But Fall's promise is just around the corner.

Bring it on.