Stirring Point

As Denver slides into the last days of autumn, a few stubborn leaves cling to the trees. An early snow tried knocking them loose. The bora wind blew heaps to the ground. The trees now stand like towering dendrites, stripped of their color and ready for winter.

I rise early and stare from the window in a trance. The sun crawls through the heavens the way we crawl from warm sheets—sluggish and begrudging—angered by the day. It spent much of the summer in a relentless tirade: burning skin, singeing plants and running us all indoors. Now, it’s roughed up and worn out. We’re all tired, I think. The whole damn solar system seems ready for a nap.

November on the Front Range loves a good bait and switch. It lures us in with a sunny afternoon, then feeds us to the jaws of a biting shade. Splotches of snow litter the yard and soak through a carpet of fallen leaves. They clump together like paper mache and refuse the efforts of my leaf blower. Stubbornness above, stubbornness below. I give up and walk to my garden, pulling up the collards by their roots as I go. I reach for a pepper plant, withered and dull, and spot a lone habanero hanging from its branch. Its lumpy texture and orange skin dangle with ease and remain intact. What resilience. The season feels like a heap of contrasts. It is both warm and cold, clinging and releasing. Some things are ready. Some things are not.

“Contact” creates the urge to slow down and huddle the body under blankets and sweaters. A warm hand rests on a frigid windowpane. Bare feet move across cold ceramic tiles. Northern winds rush through a freshly cracked door. The cold fills gaps and slides into our spaces. It’s hellbent on stealing our collections of warmth. 

Do I cling to the fall or release to the winter? It’s coming regardless, so the fight feels futile. Like the clinging leaves that refuse to budge, I want to wear out my grip and hang ‘til I drop. I love the fall. So I cling to its days like a leaf to a branch, hoping for a little more time with this view.