The 21st tells me to change.
Nature isn’t as exact.
The struggle of two seasons begins
With the new pushing the old away.
The old life struggles for relevancy.
As Mother Nature brings on the cold.
My soul hangs on tight…
To warm, sensuous days.
The grip of Fall holds tighter than the breezes of Summer.
Sunshine dwindles to dark, long days.
They blend into night.
Warmth drifts from the furnace now…
No longer the heat of the sun.
Sitting outdoors reveals
The cold crispness of winter air.
Voices are silent
As hibernation sets the tone.
My cardinal’s song is hushed…
Until the 21st tells me to change.