there there
the first day of autumn
A brief flare of perfect white: the second inflection point. Summer, to summer's bloom, to summer's end. Father, daughter, and mother, gathered together in one place to pass the crystal scepter from hand to hand to hand. Cold creeps in beneath the door, the musk of decaying leaves spices the air, sleep comes earlier: Lydia's warm hand on the back of your neck lulling you in quiet. The cervid goddess has a soft voice as she sings her season in to swing.
A timid-looking woman with long brown hair, warm red lips, and eyes the color of a fawn's hide begins the work of loving putting the world to rest before the winter is to come.