When my hair was glorious and evil enough to snap the strongest of combs, I jutted an impudent chin at my lover. "I don't care what you say. That calendar says summer doesn't end until Sept 22, so that's when summer ends."
Now white strands paint an illusion that I wear a thin cap of frost. I enjoy my irascibility. My lover-turned-husband retains the gold, pale yellow, and brass strands of his youth, while his eyes continue to gleam that pale blue hue found in the mantles of Norse battle gods and unforgiving frost dragons. If he wants to age slowly and handsomely, then that's his problem.
The calendar has grown silly and prankish. Can't that damn calendar see my purple cone flowers are shriveling and turning black? That burdock leaves are wilting into a light brown? If I weren't so lazy, I'd dig up the roots and make a tea for my skin. Should I buy more elderberry and honey syrup in preparation for the inevitable sore throat and malaise? Why doesn't that calendar notice how the morning sun is taking longer to burn off the bluish-gray haze? Blast it! Will I find any cards to send off for the equinox? How can that naughty calendar show that we have less than three weeks of summer when I feel the electricity of magic in my bones?
This transition! This time when Season and I move into the autumn of our lives!