All The Months In Fall -

Then came November, walking slowly, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. She wore gray and brown, the colors of bare branches and sleeping earth. Her eyes were quiet, and she carried a single, withered leaf in her palm. “I bring the end,” she whispered. “The last apple on the bough, the foggy mornings, the feast where we gather close. I bring the remembrance of all that has passed, and the first hard frost that tells the seeds: rest now.”

And when the first snow whispered across the fields, the three months clasped hands and vanished—September back into waiting spring, October into the heart of memory, November into the cold hush of December’s doorstep. all the months in fall

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.” Then came November, walking slowly, her hands wrapped

September smiled, weaving a crown of dried lavender. “And without my beginning, there would be no story at all.” “I bring the end,” she whispered

The three months stood together, watching the forest shed its gold.

That night, they walked through the woods, each in turn. September brushed the green leaves into yellow. October set them ablaze with red and orange. November gently tugged them free, letting them spiral down into soft piles on the earth.

October draped an arm around her. “Without your stillness, no one would notice my fire.”