Autumnal Angst

The relative season. The shift.

The smell of fallen November leaves, lightly tossed in yesterday’s rain, fills the air. 

 

It fills me with a sense of sudden sensibility.  Like the leaves and the rain, I have fallen, and have rustled in yesterday’s sorrow.  But today the sun is bright, and the rain is gone, and the wind is swift. 

 

After a moment’s whiff of pity, I set sail on a whim in the wind; and I leave my sodden doubts for the dirt.