September smiled, weaving a crown of dried lavender. “And without my beginning, there would be no story at all.”
And when the first snow whispered across the fields, the three months clasped hands and vanished—September back into waiting spring, October into the heart of memory, November into the cold hush of December’s doorstep. all the months in fall
October draped an arm around her. “Without your stillness, no one would notice my fire.” September smiled, weaving a crown of dried lavender
That night, they walked through the woods, each in turn. September brushed the green leaves into yellow. October set them ablaze with red and orange. November gently tugged them free, letting them spiral down into soft piles on the earth. “Without your stillness, no one would notice my fire
“They always blame me for the sadness,” November murmured.
But every year, they return. First the teacher, then the trickster, then the quiet one. Together they remind us: fall is not an ending. It is a long, slow, beautiful turning—a season of letting go, so something new can dream beneath the snow.
The three months stood together, watching the forest shed its gold.