The first kiss of Winter brushes against the nape of my neck.
Clouds in my mind, above the frigid winds of time, portend a blizzard.
Old snow will soon cover the fruits of my labour.
My labour? I delude nobody but myself. I have not toiled to rake the leaves of my Autumn. I would rather the detritus of time passed disperse. Instead they amass, uninvited on my leeward side. Unwelcome memories lay at my feet.
They lie, whispering sentiments I can't recognise, and over the anguished rustling I hear the howl and wonder if that's the wind.