Fading

It seems a shame to have a dying rose on such a warm and beautiful day. The seasons are changing. Nights are cold, even if it's still nice enough to eat lunch out on the picnic table. The angle of light is different, and the air itself carries an anticipation. When I was a child, I had a red wool cardigan for this weather; I can smell the wool, and feel the scratchy fibers and the stiff ribbon that trimmed the buttonholes, and I sniff the air for changes. My body remembers more dramatic seasons from another climate, and my senses are alert, waiting, tuned to something no longer useful but delighting in the small movements toward winter.