Warm

I was stumbling out the front door and towards the truck, early this morning, when I caught it. I was off the porch, down the stairs and halfway to that little bag of coffee that I was sure was in the front seat when that little whiff of wood smoke entered my nostrils, curled up into my brain, and made me say, "No. Not yet."
Nevermind that I put a blanket on the bed last week, and should have put another one on the bed this week. Nevermind that I needed a jacket when I drove into market yesterday morning, and nevermind that it didn’t get light until I was somewhere near Woodfin, when it used to get just light as I was leaving the farm. It’s too early for fires in the woodstove.
I mean, it’s only, well, September.
Alright, but early September. The leaves aren’t even turning, yet.
Well, they are, sorta. Getting a little brown here and there, and looking like they want to turn. Chestnuts have started falling from the trees around the house, but that was a mere three days ago.
The State Fair is this weekend, that quaint little celebration of autumn harvest and prize winning apple pies, but it’s not like there’s frost on the – hell, I don’t even have pumpkins, yet.
The golden rod and ironweed have been in bloom so long I hardly notice them, anymore, though they get more and more stunning in the evening as the sun that hits them sinks, well, lower and lower in the skies, so low that the evening sunlight almost seems to be hitting them from below and shining up through them.
But that doesn’t mean it’s time to build a fire. It’s not like I’m sitting here at my keyboard shivering, or cradling my coffee in my hands and letting its heat seep through my hands.
I always look forward to autumn but I never quite want it to come. I always curse the heat and the workload of summer, but I never quite want it to end.
I can’t stop the march of time, obviously, but I can remain in denial about the need to chop firewod.