November

I love the bare trees and the wind that blows through my skin, wind that blows right into my heart. I love waking up to the hardest gold streaked across the sky and the pink that lingers in the folds of cloud till mid-morning. I love the hundred shades of grey in every day. I love walking through November fields, oats and peas just starting to brown, withered grasses, bare soil the deepest earthen black. I love the way the sky deepens and hardens and the way grey penetrates everything: the house, your boots, the trunks of trees, the edges of pastures, stone walls, hands.

I love the early dark. I love the white moon that rises early and sets late. I love the hardy rows of kale and collards, frosty but strong, parades of dull grey in bright relief against the bleak shades of November. I love the bleak shades of November and the landscape they reveal. I love the way it feels walking through woods bare of leaves, the forest empty and still, the curves and turns of the land finally visible. I love being able to look through slim trunks to distant mountains. I love the shapes of ash and maple and birch.

I love the work of November. Turning beds, spreading compost, mulching. Taking stock, putting away, tucking in. I love harvesting for winter storage: parsnips, carrots, beets, rutabegas. I love how a farm slows down and softens in November. How the land stills, naturally preparing itself for sleep.

I love the starkness of the time between the golden leaves of October and the long snow of December. The bittersweet and pine, the brown roads, the pale white skies, the blazing golden sunsets. The stars brighten in November. The earth fades into deeper shades of itself. My heart slows, and strengthens, and opens to meet the endless space of the naked woods.