By MegAnne Ford
There is a moment during the changing of the season when light hesitates. It breathes in the colours of summer, holding them suspended. A cool, damp mist is expelled and the lush flora begins to slip away. It is a mystical practice, overseen by shortened days, cool evenings, and determined breezes. These are the sentinels of change. They round up the fading scarlets and mauves and march the leaves to the ground. A new order emerges; dripping, crackling, and exploding with streamers of gold and orange. Autumn issues orders for sleep and waits impatiently for the mourners to finish their wake. Creatures settle slowly into prepared dens and the trees suck up the last of summer's bounty. Sunlight retreats as mist turns to fog and the clouds open with rain. I watch and feel my soul moving into winter's grace.
Congregational Life Newsletter Vol. 9 No. 1 December 2002