I grew still after the glittering, brimming with water, wild, and spring; after the deceptive, brief happiness, youthful love had taken flight... I grew still after summer's promises, had seared my heart to ash; after the thousand aching desires, buried somewhere in the July dusk... Today I am autumn—wise and ripened, having weathered both spring and summer... I'm November, ablaze with color...Yet whole... Richly held by love and longing...
# Autumn The leaves are turning gold, their edges burnt with rust— a slow release of what they held through spring's soft verdure, summer's thrust. The air grows thin and clean, sharp with the scent of change, as if the world, grown weary, sighs and lets go the strange bright burden of its green. The birds have already gone, their absence a kind of music— the silence that comes when song withdraws into the waiting dark. And we, too small to hold the weight of turning seasons, stand here, growing cold, learning again what loss can teach: that beauty lives in endings, in the letting go, in what the darkness gives.
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