“Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love—that makes life and nature harmonize.” ~ George Eliot

Sometimes
when I think of an autumn day

walking through dry leaves, scored with fiery traces of sudden aging
my feet kicking up musty composting dust for the white winter looming
my dog trotting merrily ahead, tail wagging as he smells and swims
and
I could almost cry

thinking of how kind you are. And how kind we are. And how much goodness rests in this world, if we only walk out into it.

And then I remember

the cynical bullying born of unaware insecurity
the cold selling of “goodness,” the marketing of want
and
I could almost cry

remembering how nearly we have ruined this great auburn present, this life, this season

but then I look up, and the mountains loom through the hazing smoke, behind the goldenlit gold leaves atop the century-old trees and I know

there is too much left to love

to give in to cynicism—mine or yours.
And so I let myself feel sad, for that is goodness, too. And I let myself feel gratitude—the kindness among us must yet win out.
And my dog and I return to my home, and we make him food and me coffee and pancakes, with maple syrup and Miyoko’s butter on old Winslow Homer china, and as I sip this rich black brown heat, I treasure this morning that so many good people gave to me, and I treasure this life that this earth has given to all of us, and I vow once again to return goodness with goodness, and cynicism with goodness, too.

And I could almost cry, and smile, too, and then I do.

 “Autumn—that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness.” ~ Jane Austen