Photos: Sheela Mehrotra

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells." 

- John Keats | To Autumn

Raked in banks of soft afternoon light, winter blooms and cascading fall leaves against the patina of Provence, there’s a warmth. It’s simple. A quiet freedom that affirms that we are capable of all things we may think is impossible.