We were talking about the coming change of time, the five of us around breakfast, wrapping heads around the inevitability of vanishing daylight while we munched our toast and forked our scrambled eggs. We glanced outside, then at the clock, subtracted an hour. Yes, that's soon how it'll be: catch the morning bus by daylight; catch dinner back at home by dark. Despite protests and shaking heads, this is late year's way. A shushing of busy; a hibernation of chaos. Darkening.
I may be in the minority, but I'm drawn to those darker months and quieter days. Drawn to the tucking in and holding on. There's a calm there that I need. Calm in the bowl of brothy soup, in the flicker of the yellow candle wick, in the golden grass that lines a pond. When late-day moments wrap in familiar notes of woodsy smoke, steaming chocolate, and moldering leaves. When the opening of a hot oven is welcome and the steamy cake is cut right through by forking boys, even before dinner is served (a chocolate cake, though some think it should've been spice, instead). When pansies and cabbages are the last soldiers standing in the chilly garden soil.
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