It can never come too soon for me.
The leaves falling to crisp footsteps and the blue icy frosting that sweeps across my pasture signal the trumpet call.
Stacking firewood beside the wood-burning stove, retrieving the woolen scarves lovingly packed home from Scotland, reversing the order of stacked shoes to bring the Wellies and LLBean boots up to the top, and adjusting Pandora to coo in a mystical, Clannad-ish reverie.
Yes, gloriously every year rounds the corner to this place of warmth, of spice, of crackling flames, blustery walks and divine, deep appreciation for all the good, simple things.
m wood pen 