Seasonal Mood.

I guess the thing about grieving in autumn is that it makes sense, somehow. The slow march of irretrievable change, loss, and death, it's all around. Mourning fits with the season. And yet, with all that final, flaming color, there's the itching drive to make something, save something, pull a piece of the magic out of the air and preserve it in glass jars and flower presses, tuck it between the leaves of mystery novels and down between the rolls of freshly washed wool socks. Save a piece of something that was summer, for times when even the memory of summer is gone. The gleam won't stay on the chestnut, though. And canned fruit are never quite the same as fresh. And spring is a long way off, now.