Gay October

It’s the golden time of year, when hearths are fired to chase away the chill; and hobgoblins are carved and set out waiting for the moppet parade. All that has blossomed begins to shed. All that beamed under the summer sun, seeks cover in the woodshed and warmth under plaid blankets. It’s a cozy time, when things mature, trying to cast off thoughts of winter’s coming. Words are brash and bronze, shunning silver’s hastening. The yawning of the year — my Gay October, creeps into my bones and spurs me to versify — quiet words and jocular ones and sly and pure. The ale bubbles and the fish turns well on the grill. It’s the season of inward turning and chopping wood — sweeping and mending and storing and saying farewell to youth; and yet remembering the lessons that Gay October teaches the young preparing them for the long haul of winter. I am prepared as I stand up to my ass in snow.