Monday, October 8, 2012

I can't get the chill out of my bones

The first really cold day, cold enough for a few wet snowflakes, and I can't get the chill out of my bones.  No amount of soup or coffee or tea warms me.  A well stoaked fireplace and the smell of fresh baked pumpkin bread are no help either.  I have spent the day watching the pelting rain knock the gold and crimson leaves off of the trees. 
There is plenty of traffic, people who have come out to see the leaves. which are falling quickly. And there are those who have to close up their summer homes, going back home with trailers, and ATVs, or a boat.  Windshield wipers flailing against the rain and spray from the other cars, headlights are needed at noontime.   When I wake up tomorrow, there will be snow, now there is nothing all that odd about snow at this time of year, it happens pretty often. and sometimes the winter that follows is mild, and sometimes not.
It is the time to withdraw into the warmth and light of the house, as the sunsets get earlier and earlier, there is mow time to read and pursue other interests, or so I tell myself.  But no matter what I tell myself, I know that it is the thought of winter coming that makes me feel so very cold; cold in my bones and cold in my soul.

Watching the sky. the rain. and the grey clouds swirl and blend in the dim daylight gives today a storybook quality, this isn't real, it is the backdrop from a mysterious or dramatic tale of long ago and far away.  Some half remembered story from childhood about a kindly old woman who lived in the woods, living off the land and making quilts and mittens and may-be cookies for all of the woodland creatures....well, I can't remember the rest. 

There's a chill in my bones, and I can't get it out.  My socks are not thick enough, the steam from the teakettle makes it worse, the quilt is too thin and lets the chill in.  A nap under the blankets, does nothing, the fireplace blazes but does not warm me, summer's fire has gone cold, and there is a chill in my soul.

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slightly wordy Slent Sunday on a road

Not every picture is worth a thousand words, but the memory it represents is.