Windowsills and teacups

It's getting cold in Maine. It was drizzling as I walked home from class today, brick and brown stone buildings weeping away summer's warmth, small puddles huddling between cobblestones, the gray sky much closer than the blue one from yesterday. Shoulders hunched, umbrella in trembling hand, I glanced up at the massive clock towering over Congress Street, proclaiming 54. Degrees. At noon. Slowly but surely the leaves are losing their chlorophyll, sap sinking into the cooling earth, limbs shooting up to the sky as if on fire; reds, yellow, oranges creeping into the dying leaves.
My coats are crowded into a corner of my little room, ready to become my keepers. Scarves peek out beneath stacks of t-shirts, wool socks snuggle in a pile near my flip flops. I am ready for fall. Ready for chilly nights and breezy days, red in my cheeks and a cup of warm tea in my hands. Ready for burying myself in a book in my rocking chair, pulling a knit cap over my ears and wandering through the dark afternoon shadows towards a coffeeshop filled with bundled bodies and thrumming guitars. Ready to knit away a morning, write long passages about summer into the following day.