The dying world, the death, the birthing world, the birthed.

I can never wait for the seasons to change. Now summer transitioning into autumn, and I don’t think that October could come quickly enough. Then as the leaves are all in the streets crunching beneath the passerby’s feet, I’ll be sitting on the curb and looking at the sky willing it to snow. Once January comes, I’ll wait to see the flowers poking up out of the soil moist from the slushy melt. When May comes, I’ll wait for the warm rain that will fill the gutters to the brim, and my shoes. And then by August I’ll be back where I am now, waiting for the wind to knock the branches bare.