Just a Matter of When - Nov 3 2025

 

Just a Matter of When

Nov 3 2025

There’s an in-betweenness to fall.

It feels like pressing pause

on the headlong rush of time.

A needed break

from seasonal extremes,

from the successive resets

of an urgent spring

when green shoots reach up

competing for light

while newborns must be fed,

and winter’s slow indifferent death. 

Fall,

when the circle of life feels complete

or at least — for now — at rest.

Even the colours are muted,

a low sun

imparting a soft autumnal glow.

You still can’t see the air,

but it seems more substantial

than it did in summer,

cool and dry

and scented with woodsmoke,

filled with the crunch

of leaves underfoot.

And even a serious man like me can’t resist

the simple pleasure

of wading through a windrow

piled against the hedge;

just like the kid

who loved splashing through puddles 

in his yellow slicker

and high rubber boots.

Early November

is like a slow deep breath,

or a silent moment

between musical notes;

a brief interregnum 

in which to replenish

and compose ourselves.

Summer has ended

school begun

and winter is coming,

as inexorably

as the planet circles the sun. 

it’s just a matter of when.

The uncertainty 

that makes this time so precious,

a little on edge

as we expectantly wait

for the snow that stays.

The sun is setting

the trees are bare

and the air preternaturally still.

I sit looking out the window

at the smoke curling up

from a distant chimney

against the dimming afternoon light.

It seems in no rush to rise.

And neither am I.

Leaning back

in my tattered recliner

as my tired eyes 

drift slowly shut. 

My head is on its rest

and feet are up,

snugly tucked

into soft-soled slippers

and thick woollen socks.

A literal description of me as I write this, woollen socks and all!

And although the slippers may have been kicked off, the delectable tongue twister that ends the poem demands they be included.