Oh, hear November, we have missed you, and now you are here. Not that we really missed you, but Thanksgiving is coming and we can’t have it without you.
As the real world continues to creep closer than nostalgic comfort, one might engage in the tendency to hide. We can pretend that the lines drawn on our geographies will keep us safe and sane, but our hearts have always been more porous than walls and fences. We can hide, or we can engage and shake the truths out of the confusion. Art helps.
This is that hard part of autumn for me, when all the baseball is done and the rain has knocked the leaves off the trees, still with their warm-colored hues, but helpless on the ground, maybe to be raked or swept up or maybe to wait for the snow blanket where they will sleep until it is time for baseball again.