by: Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)
There’s something about the first chilly morning that arrives between summer and fall that fills my soul with anticipation. I will admit, autumn is my favorite time of year so I am a bit partial, but when Chilly Morning arrives, I feel like a child awaiting Santa Claus.
She greets me at the door, her hands flung open wide, embracing me with her cool kiss. Our cat, Prissy, perks up her ears and flicks her tail–oh, how frisky she’ll be this week. I skip down the driveway and call out to the chickens. They mumble and refuse to come out of their warm coop, even for their favorite breakfast.
Chilly Morning’s arrival brings with her the thought of hot cider, warm soup, and fresh greens. She invites us on long hikes under maple trees aflame in auburn and gold and lulls us to sleep with cool breezes through open windows.
She’s all about crunchy leaf piles, chirping crickets, and honking geese. She’s the color of bright pumpkins, rainbow chard, and crimson leaves.
And she’s here, filling my spirit with a sense of anticipation and excitement for a new season–a season to celebrate the Creator’s
passion for harvest and thanksgiving.