I hear the Winter, curses rolling from her tongue. Her pilgrimage having just begun.
The trees are leaving me again, Their colors running so vibrant as they fade. I am taken by them
-much like you
Their red death-blossoming leaves me gasping for the scent that isn’t there
-much like yours
But the trees will return, again green and full when this journey has run its course.
This is certain
-but you aren’t
I know the seasons must come, but you are no season.
You’re a memory on the wind of Autumn’s cascading leaves
You’re the sweat dripping down my back in the Summer heat
The flower’s very own perfume as the Spring thaws.