The season is changing. I don't want it to, so guess my mood.
Even though it is still clearly autumn, it is starting to look and very much feel like November. And nothing says winter is almost here in quite the same way as the month of November in Vermont. The bare trees are black against the gray skies. The sun burst through once in a while, but mostly it drizzles rain from those clouds. The temperatures drop sharply at night and frost covers the morning more thoroughly each day. And it is dark. It is dark for long hours of the day and night.
I wonder at those who so readily embrace this time of year with its permission to gather inward, stay close to home and hearth, have a kettle of hot soup simmering on the stove and a loaf of bread in the oven. They must be able to identify with Persephone.
I, on the other hand, identify with Demeter who mourns for her daughter as I mourn for the passing of summer.