And now it's october

And now it’s october

and there are wildfires quarreling with snowstorms, questionable trick-or-treating plans and an election moments away. The leaves were gold and now they’re gone — in Colorado things happen quickly, the seasons criss-cross and overstep and disappear, untethered to the calendar. 

Last week we almost bought a 15-acre ranch, this week it’s a woody house on a mountain. Last week I wore shorts on the run, the next I am bundled and breathing in ice-air. First, there’s dry dirt stuck in my shoes, and the next moment I’m digging for traction. I’m digging for answers: when will the snow swallow the smoke? When will the senate flip? Will my rights to choose what my body will hold be snatched, will the children ever be reunited, can we take off the masks we wear? 

And now it’s october and everything is dying. I say farewell to summer dresses and strappy sandals I mourn the loss of freedom from layers. In october everything is darkening, the sunlight lands differently each night in the kitchen while I cut the onions; the earth spins 1,000 miles an hour and yet it’s the news that makes me dizzy. 

And now it’s october and I soften, and slow, and welcome hoodless sweatshirts and long socks. We can now use the oven, we can now make soups and fires. Whiskey becomes the better choice. The rattlesnakes and brown bears prepare for hibernation while the bobcats become more diurnal, searching for sun and prey.

I pray to the galaxies for people living in the future on the other side of the world. I rub serum on my skin every day and still don’t know what for. In october I am caught in the in-betweens of being alive and breathless; skin cracks, flames pop, branches snap. I’ll snap if I hear another thing about the second amendment, or another life lost, another eContract to sign.

In october I want deliberate rest and a belief in peace. 
I want to howl at the Harvest and Hunter’s moon. 
I want to close my eyes while the chrysanthemums bloom, 
giving them their autumnal stage.