Corn and Grain

Tis the season for pumpkins and pinestraw.

On this cool and almost crisp October morning, the sky is a brilliant blue and the leaves are falling and drifting onto the grass like oversized colored paper snowflakes. The air has changed and smells of autumn somehow - morning light filters through the trees in hazy streaks and there is the promise of early dark in the breeze. The change of seasons is almost upon us, coming gently and in small steps, as if testing the waters before diving in, as if not wanting to get caught. Tis the season of sweaters and hot cider, state fairs and Halloween, apple picking, hay bales in neat rows and baskets of Indian corn set on doorsteps. Tis the season of jack'o'lanterns and gremlins, trick or treaters, witches and broomsticks, evenings of 5 o'clock darkness and glowing streetlights at dusk.

For me, October has traditionally been a month of free floating melancholy and sweet sadness. There's no good reason for it, but it's my least favorite month and it brings associations of goodbyes and endings. It's an orphan month, too old to be August and too young to be November - a stepchild no one really wants, caught in the middle of a custody war between summer and winter, resentful and sullen and determined not to care. Even it's colors are angry - fiery reds and disagreeable oranges, yellows for cowardice and a whole range of dull, neutered browns, simmering with hostility and envy. It's an unwanted month, tempermental and indecisive, with all the passion of the dead leaves it produces. It's a month having an identity crisis and not handling it well.

The late afternoon light is gone now and the mornings arrive with a shattering brightness that hurts my eyes and offends my senses. By afternoon the clouds gather and it begins to rain - it's suddenly muggy and unpleasantly warm although the rain is cold and gray. October turns this way and that, unsure of which direction it's supposed to go and whining about it's confusion, lost in the turmoil of months that clearly have their place in time. Spring and summer are bright, winter brings a cold and clear definition of the season, but October is muddy and uncertain, not a month to make choices or changes and impossible to dress for. On my route to work each morning, I pass a homeless man carrying a duffel bag and a broom and wearing a maroon parka, hooded and fur lined. He shuffles down the sidewalks of one of the better sections of the city, slightly bent over and face hidden from the traffic. I think he knows what October is all about.

The day ends as it began with a brilliant sky and blinding, early autumn sunshine and against my will, I'm forced to wonder if I've misjudged this changeling month with it's dead leaves and unpredictable mood swings.

Corn and grain,
corn and grain,
all that falls will rise again.