The Place that is October

When your journey leads toward Autumn,

you might take a glance behind

towards the rambling border of August -

her gold-tinged fields

and crystal falls.

But then you'll look ahead

cross through September's vales, upon a

threshold of ochre and sienna,

see the leaf-plastered signs, and

drawn by a campfire's perfume,

you'll know that you've arrived at last.

A country mile outside town,

You'll find a tractor towing

sweet hay by the bouncing wagon -

so let it jounce you through this eclectic ville

cobbled timelessly together

from a season's breathing, billowing soul.

Through the cottages and country roads

there waft aromas soft, and rich -

pastry crust, moldering earth,

and air untouched by summer's hand.

Then color steals upon the scene

with a sense of rogueish beginnings -

and at once you hear

the soft, patter-some thrum

of gentle rain

on damp leaves.

That special, autumnal petrichor

falls everywhere, in October:

sweet, earthy, mild,

wistful, wonderful, and wandering

as a leaf from a tree

in a distant memory's grove.

And a white-chocolate and pumpkin cookie becomes

the best thing you've ever tasted

washed down with gorgeous cider

cool and crisp as the morning air.

And all mornings, there, are made

of that earthy, tangible mist

as dew turns to lanterns uncountable

wielded by yellowing, weathered grass,

alit by a slow and sleepy sun.

Fabled horrors are happy wells, for some,

in this patchwork town

who take joy in costumed spooks

and tales things ghostly and grim.

But the place belongs first to children,

for it is where they can their own heroes be -

where the streets are paved with their storybooks,

and their dreams have homes and names.

Hope and Mourning

are next-door neighbors, there,

exchanging baked goods and

meaningful, stolen glances,

living on borrowed ingredients

and time.

And time is the ingredient which

turns the month to purest magic -

Time the hand which gives and takes

sparkling masks to and from

every last thing

that breathes with the land

and the season

there.

Nostalgia hides in the woven folds of woodsmoke -

Warmth leaves the streets to shelter in spiced drinks and musty flannels.

The soul's quiet wonder wears the costume of tradition, and

Melancholy puts on his bravest face - which is wistfulness -

While whimsy, with courage,

steps into her spotlight - a flickering streetlight -

on a village row criss-crossed with windswept webs.

The trees don crimson masks and sepia wings

To match the tone of the unfolding scene.

And you've arrived at last.

So begins again the marking

of the passing

of the seasons

of our lives -

with pumpkins and candles,

skeletons and sugar,

with fresh cider and old stories,

with the stones of fire pits and the scattered leaves.

And like a child with a bucket and eager expectations,

we paint hope on our faces again

and savor the bittersweet flavor

of a thing that comes and goes -

the aching sort of comfort -

proffered by the soulful paradox

that is the place

that is October.