These early November hours
That crimson the creeper's leaf across
Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt,
O'er a shield: else gold from rim to boss
And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped
Elf-needled mat of moss.
-Robert Browning

November... a month of brown and fading colors- the brilliance of October has danced itself down to a plainer, mourning attitude. The world, it seems, is dying. But not so! Deep within the freezing earth, roots and seeds lay still- waiting... sleeping, only. Spring will come. But- before it- the winter must.

It is the constant change of seasons- the turn of the wheel- the effortless flow of nature around us that makes the concept of the Wheel of the Year such an important one in my life. I am captivated by it- enchanted- held captive by its beauty and grace.

I am a child of nature. I grew up on the back of a pony- somewhere out on a frost covered field. I learned the trees in our wood by heart- pressing childish mittens to the snowy bark- listening intently for the magic beneath. I was enthralled with it- as I am now. Some things we never grow out of.

Still with childish wonder I wait for Thanksgiving. I breathe in deeply the scent of sweetly decaying leaves and saturated ground. The earth is shifting- changing... ready to accept the mantle of snow that will soon come. It is upon the air- lift your face to the wind, and she will murmur future moments into your soul. The winter is coming.

But it is still Autumn- the trees are drowsily curtsying for their final dance of the year. The Queen of Winter is descending from her throne- ready to climb into her sleigh and show the world what beauty truly is. And the leaves settle in their mossy beds- their only flight ended.