No degree below zero,
No chill of northern wind,
No depth of snow or frost
marks the end of fall here
…
Yet, the war of light and dark outside
still controls the season of my soul
…
The crisp November air shines
in fading light through naked branches
of trees left behind by the sides of streets,
accompanied by clatter of pedestrian boots
punctuated by raucous cries of crows
and quiet sips of hot cider
…
For me, time seems to both slow
and accelerate
…
When the sun sets early,
dawn is early too.
But the light leaving,
hits harder
than the light rising.
…
When the light dies,
When the day dies,
Do I die in a cycle with it?
The world of death inside
— a myth turned reality
when no light shines on it.
