they are always a prelude.
the leaves fall. the litter the pavements like september memories. like paul verlaine, the long sobs of violins in autumn, carried by the wind wounds my heart with a monotonous languor.
there is sadness in leaving. but seasons have their time.
these winds beckon me to prepare catching the breeze and winter chills of a snowy linen land. nipping the bud of summer, they now nip at your door.
can christmas be far behind?
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment