Autumn is the season of the bluest skies. It’s not only the contrast with the red and gold leaves, although the sky sets off those fiery colors like nothing else. When the leaves have gone, branches frame shifting light, drifting clouds. The lines of the earth reach deep into the sky.
I drink the sky on sunny days. I tilt my head back until my neck stretches and cracks. The color saturates the air around me. A crow soars overhead calling to his mate. A cardinal lands among the wild grapes, swinging the vines like a kid on a jungle gym.
This sky is Hera’s mantle, Brighid’s cloak, the fabric of the universe. It blankets the woods and cradles the fallen seeds waiting for spring. We are all jewels woven in its web, glowing in its light.
I do not understand how blue became the color of sadness. This cerulean exuberance has nothing to do with sorrow. I want to taste this blue in my throat all winter long. I want my words to shine with its harmony. I want this color to permeate my bones until I am translucent as leaves of rue. I want to fall into the sky.