Dear Summer,
You arrived quietly this year. No grand announcement, no blazing sunburst, just the soft rustle of leaves and the hum of bees drifting through the open window. I almost missed your entrance, distracted as I was by grocery lists and dust in the hallway. But now I see you, stretching long golden arms over the meadow and warming the worn floorboards of the kitchen.

You’ve brought your usual treasures, of course,
Raspberries warm from the bush, the sharp green smell of tomato vines, evenings dotted with fireflies. The kind of magic that requires nothing more than sitting still long enough to notice.

I’ve taken to slipping outside barefoot in the mornings, just to feel the cool grass before the day begins. It makes me feel like I’m ten again, before coffee and car keys and calendars. The air smells like wild mint and old wood, and for a moment I pretend time doesn’t move as fast as it does.

You’ve turned the laundry line into a ribbon of poetry, with cotton dresses and dishcloths flapping like soft flags in the breeze. Even the chores feel gentler when you’re near.

I’ve been trying to slow down with you.
To stir jam slowly.
To take my tea outside.
To watch the way light filters through hydrangea petals.
You remind me to look, to savor, to be.

I know you don’t stay long.
You never do.
But I want you to know I’m paying attention this time.
To that sleepy feeling you get after being outside all day.

To the clink of ice in the glass.
To the hush that falls over the world just before dusk.

Stay a little while longer if you can.
We’re just getting used to your rhythm.

With berry-stained hands and a full heart,

— Autumn