When the Morning Dew Turned into Frost
By Frederick J. Blahnik
October happened along, and the weather suddenly changed
That raw nip in the air indigenous to September has now become something more permanent and nefarious and malignant
That benign breeze out of the south has now gained a palpable ferocity and switched over ominously to the northwest
The sun arises later and slouches ever closer to the southern horizon with each passing day
And in the midst of everything else, the regular morning dew from months past has inscrutably turned into thick white frost.
October happened along and the weather paused before making an abrupt right turn
That gentle air caressing my fully exposed skin almost every day last month is no longer gentle when it reaches out to contact my covered body
The rain falling from the sky now feels colder and harsher than it did just two weeks ago
The rays of light issued by the sun, although they look exactly the same as before, no longer warm with the same diligence and dedication like they did back in mid-September
And in the midst of everything else, the regular morning dew from months past has inscrutably turned into thick white frost.
October happened along and the weather suffered through an identity crisis before deciding to don an entirely different costume
The relatively balmy air that graced Labor Day weekend now feels as much arctic as it does tropical
Those days of going shirtless in the afternoons that extended into the first half of September conspicuously went AWOL once the month of October flipped down on the wall calendar
The sun is being pulled inexorably downward with each succeeding day now, if not by gravity than by some other cryptic cosmic force
And in the midst of everything else, the regular morning dew from months past has inscrutably turned into thick white frost.
Yes, that riant morning dew mutated into thick white frost somewhere along the temporal causeway, and in the mornings I feel my sinews and cartilage and tendons go SNAP-CRACKLE-POP even as I sense my aging bones becoming more and more brittle with each passing sunrise.
The seasons of the year are rapidly advancing like an invading Prussian army, and so too in lockstep are the seasons of my life.
Fred's Soapbox 