There's an old farm bell on a pole by our back door, perfect for ringing to call the family in for supper. Every spring I tie twine up the sides and plant morning glories all around it. All summer long they climb higher and higher, wrapping their way along, their draping tendrils catching onto neighboring flowers and curling around each other into thick ropes. By the end of summer the whole pole is smothered in lush green leaves, growing in such a thick tangle you can hardly see the bell.
They finally started blooming just a few weeks ago, and you could almost see them growing, their tight spirals opening into sky-blue flowers in the morning and turning purple as the day went by. By evening their brief lives were done - they disappeared in the night, and new blooms took their turn the next day, bobbing in the breeze.
Morning glories bloom so late, here in the north; they barely get a few precious flowers in before the first frost. Just a few brief weeks of glory, and then their time is over. So every day I've been stopping to enjoy them as I went in and out. A few days ago I stepped out into the chilly morning and thought, this is the last day, I think. I took this picture: three perfect blue trumpets.
Sure enough, that night we had our first frost. The next morning the proud vines hung limp, and every leaf was black. The trumpets of summer were gone. So we cleared away the vines, and the old bell was laid bare again until next spring. Another ending, as autumn fades away.
These are the between days, when one season is changing into the next. They're neither one nor the other but both - the last days of one, and the first hints of the next. We feel the first breath of winter in the morning, and the last rays of warm sunshine at noon. We watch the last bright leaves blow away on the wind and wait for the first snow, both at once.
To me, these brief days between the seasons are special, even holy. Oh, I love the heights of spring, with every flower blooming, or the bright colors of high autumn, the long summer days or the heavy snows of full winter - but I also love the fragile beauty of those last precious days of the season. It's the time of saying our farewells, savoring the last few glories as they fade away, and watching as the next season makes its arrival.
One by one the remnants of fall are fading away, and I don't want them to leave unnoticed. So I gather the last flowers from my garden to brighten the table. I crane my neck to look for the sunlit blaze of the changing trees. I listen for the geese, high above, honking as they head south toward their winter homes.
I took a long drive through the countryside a few days ago. Everywhere I looked the hills were decked in the last blazing colors of maples and oaks, yellow and orange and reds, gleaming in the cold, bright sunshine that you only see in the autumn.
This morning a storm blew in, bringing wind and a steady, icy rain. I stand at the window watching as each gust of wind sends another swirl of leaves raining down, blowing the last of fall away. The brightness is fading, and the colors of winter are already setting in: the grey skies and the browns of a land resting and waiting for spring. It won't be long until we learn again the subtle white of every kind of snow.
As I watch, my thoughts turn to winter: pulling out the warm clothes, stacking the firewood on the back porch, looking over soup recipes, getting the house snug and ready.
There will be a day, months from now, when we'll move again into the between days. I'll stand at the window looking out at the shrinking snowbanks, watching for the first robin. But that's a world away from this moment and the icy rain outside my window. We've stepped into the next room, and behind me I think I hear the closing of a door.
Very nice.