It's Probably Autumn Now

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
- John Keats, To Autumn

The season of mists has begun. As it normally does, in rain, cloud, and infrequent bursts of sunshine, not unlike a temperamental child. This year, autumn has come early, as if in retort to my earlier scepticisms of a warm September and a frosty April. I don't normally like Septembers (my favourite months are December and February) and this year, September feels like September. No illusions of summer past it's time, no clinging on to hope that things are other than a dull and bland month. I like it that way. It's real, no pretensions, 100% pure honesty.

If we could break up the periods of one's life into months, I'm probably coming September by now. Assuming uneven months, it feels at this time of the year that the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed months of spring, the successes of an earlier summer have faded into a mellow and warm, coffee-drinking, bossa-nova listening, warm-coloured season. It's the season that holds off the seduction of crisp frost in December, the season that is wise to the innocent white of January's pale lips and skin, the season that says, "Tell me as it is and give me nothing more." It is the wise woman of the fates, the mother, the matriarch, the empress.

Eat with me the plum fruits of bliss,
Watch golden rays of sun caress the edge of night
Dance gently in falling leaves and fading light
Intoxicated by the season of mists.