Fire

There is also a heat in autumn, a heat in this turning and transforming of the year. Can decomposition happen without heat? I think of Jane Hirshfield's beautiful poem:

The Heat of Autumn

The heat of autumn
is different from the heat of summer.
One ripens apples, the other turns them to cider.
One is a dock you walk out on,
the other the spine of a thin swimming horse
and the river each day a full measure colder.
A man with cancer leaves his wife for his lover.
Before he goes she straightens his belts in the closet,
rearranges the socks and sweaters inside the dresser
by color. That's autumn heat:
her hand placing silver buckles with silver,
gold buckles with gold, setting each
on the hook it belongs on in a closet soon to be empty,
and calling it pleasure.

For this week's writing exercise, I invite you to seek out and dwell in the heat of autumn, this transformative fire that turns apples to cider. Watch for it all around you. Make a list in your notebook, on your phone, on scraps of paper. Capture …