a pink rose blossom

Outside of my window where I write this blog, soft autumnal light is moving across the sky and shining on a single pink rose blossom. As a breeze comes, the blossom bends slightly and the petals curl open. A yellow monarch floats past and a cactus wren pecks at seed in the bird feeder that hangs from the mesquite tree. Seed pods have begun to fall from the mesquite and yesterday I bought a pumpkin to place inside our home, marking the beginning of the season.

Years ago, after our son had grown, instead of carving a pumpkin and watching it wither in the sometimes-still blistering October heat, I bought an electric version of a Jack-o-Lantern from Walgreens. Last night I plugged it inon the front porch before we took a slow stroll around our neighborhood. It had rained an hour earlier so the air smelled of creyosote as the clouds cleared and the nightsky opened.

I love this time of year. The long stretch of September is over and, along with my marigolds who seem to widen their smile, I, too, find more to smile about: the blue morning glory vines curling around the branches of a dead oleander tree, filling up the empty space with large green leaves, the seeds of basil turning into small plants that braird among the decomposed granite rocks. (NOTE: I had that word "braird" which means, "to sprout or to appear on the ground" pop up in one of my daily online vocabulary prompts and I have waited to use it--though it sticks out in the sentence as a word from another time, which it is).

In the mornings, the sun stays behind the backyard a bit longer and I resist the summer hangover urge to get up and move before it gets hot. It is noon now and only 88 degrees so we are definitely in another season. Of course, the days ends earlier, too, and as we enjoyed another favorite meal at Milagros, our neighborhood Mexican restaurant, last night, we remarked how, at 6:00 is was already almost dark. Each year that shift surprises us.

Autumn is a time when much of the desert comes alive (although rattlesnakes and lizards prepare to hibernate for the winter). It's a time to plant new flowers, put in seeds for the spring, take afternoon walks in Reid Park or along the Rillito and move the plates and cups outside to the patio for supper dining.

This afternoon, I will enjoy the pink rose. It's bloom will fade in a day or two but its presence reminds me that as each season passes, another one seamlessly arrives for me to savor--if I slow down, and look. As you slow down with the season, what reminder from nature urges you to see, smell, touch?