October draped an arm around her. “Without your stillness, no one would notice my fire.”
All the months of fall—September, October, and November—gathered one last time before winter’s chill swept the land. They met at the edge of the old maple forest, where the leaves had already begun their slow, fiery transformation.
But every year, they return. First the teacher, then the trickster, then the quiet one. Together they remind us: fall is not an ending. It is a long, slow, beautiful turning—a season of letting go, so something new can dream beneath the snow. all the months in fall
September arrived first, smelling of fresh pencils and ripe apples. She carried a basket of goldenrod and the first cool breeze off the mountains. Her hair was the color of wheat, and her footsteps left behind a gentle crispness in the air. “I bring the beginning,” she said softly, touching the tips of the maples. “The slow goodbye to summer. The first day of school. The harvest moon rising like a copper coin.”
That night, they walked through the woods, each in turn. September brushed the green leaves into yellow. October set them ablaze with red and orange. November gently tugged them free, letting them spiral down into soft piles on the earth. October draped an arm around her
And when the first snow whispered across the fields, the three months clasped hands and vanished—September back into waiting spring, October into the heart of memory, November into the cold hush of December’s doorstep.
“They always blame me for the sadness,” November murmured. But every year, they return
September smiled, weaving a crown of dried lavender. “And without my beginning, there would be no story at all.”