September Comes to a Close But Not Summer

The first day of fall arrived in Southeast Texas this week, bringing mid-to-high ninety temperatures. I won’t be pulling out my sweaters anytime soon.

What was I expecting? By now I should know that fall creeps past this part of the world, lingering into winter. The trees hold tight to their leaves well into December, and forget about colorful leaves floating, swirling to the ground.

I remember longing for the first cool snap to wear long sleeves or a new cardigan. All it took was one day below 80 degrees to proclaim “sweater weather.”

I’ve gotten more sensible and learned the art of layering. My wardrobe looks more like perpetual summer with opportunities to pretend we have reached a new season.

Even as I quip about the lack of change, nature knows when it is time to shed the old, fly to a new home, or burrow quietly underground. The plants and animals don’t follow the local weather reporters and prognosticators. They also don’t angst over what is or isn’t in their closet.

Perhaps there is something here to learn. What if I moved through the world without overburdening my thoughts about when, how, or if the seasons show up to my liking? Each season comes and goes, year after year, nudged by the sun, air currents, moisture, and landscapes. No amount of wishing or hoping can change this natural order of things over which I have no control.

Here we are at the final days of September, and like always, the red bud trees are the first to drop their leaves. They signal spring with their early pink buds in February, and then remind me that no matter what, the seasons will change.

In a world of so little control and uncertainty, remains this remarkable strand of ebb and flow that teaches me how to enjoy each day for what it is more than what it is not. Here’s to the seasons, however they show up at your door.

Outside my window, reddish-brown, worn and crumpled leaves skitter across the driveway.

I smile.

September tribute + a summer day

“All the months are crude experiments, out of which the perfect September is made.”
—Virginia Woolf

“Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”

—Mary Oliver, “The Summer Day”