Southern Goodbye

It slinks in slowly down here

in God's country, that first frost.

Southern seasons change softly, autumn and summer embrace like lovers, and then autumn does the goodbye ritual with the sun’s warmth:

when the sun says it’s time to go, September spills one last salacious secret, walks the sun to the door and lingers with it on the porch,

sipping sweet tea in rocking chairs all through October.

Autumn is still saying goodbye at the car after the last trick or treaters finish their candy.

Christmas music begins its mind-numbing monotonous repeat play in every retail outlet.

Cranberries soak in Grand Marnier while celery and onions languish in pans of butter, simmering like the promise of a first kiss after weeks of holding hands.

A cold rain falls as the sun shuts her door, but she rolls down her window, expressing her desire for autumn to tell her mama & ‘em hey and she loves them. She thanks autumn one more time for the pound cake wrapped in plastic on the front seat.

Autumn shouts, “Come back, ya hear?” as the sun rolls up her window.

The sun turns her key in the ignition,

and the first frost falls, only to melt a few hours later,

when she comes back

because she forgot her glasses.