Month of my dreams. This is the time I climb inside my own head, write down what I discover in the corners, behind doors I'd nearly forgotten. The month of black tea, blankets, thick books with well-thumbed edges. The time for foragers, leaf gatherers, finders of treasure on the forest floor. I could throw you a party, fellow searchers; strew the table with dried flowers; bake us spice cakes and dark berry tarts to stain our lips and fingertips.
Let the winds blow. Let the branches rattle and the frosts begin. Open the old doors. Let October in.