All The Months In — Fall Best

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.

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.” all the months in fall

But every year, they return. First the teacher, then the trickster, then the quiet one. Together they remind us: fall is not an ending. It is a long, slow, beautiful turning—a season of letting go, so something new can dream beneath the snow. That night, they walked through the woods, each in turn

September smiled, weaving a crown of dried lavender. “And without my beginning, there would be no story at all.” November gently tugged them free, letting them spiral

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

October burst from the woods, laughing. His cloak was patched with orange pumpkins and crimson vines, and his breath smelled of woodsmoke and cinnamon. He spun in a circle, sending a whirlwind of scarlet and amber leaves into the air. “I bring the peak!” he shouted. “The cider pressing, the hayrides, the night when the veil grows thin. I bring the spook and the spark, the jack-o’-lantern’s grin, and the final, glorious riot of color before the trees let go.”