These days they call

the Autumn of years,

are really no different

to those which would be


called a Summer or a

Spring, or even a Winter,

for, like the seasons, there

is the constant hold of our


being, and the changing

costumes, picked up each

day, dropped at night, found

again, and worn in different


ways. Through all the seasons,

earth, sky, tree remain as them

selves, but dressed in varying

ways, which give the feeling


that they are not the same, and

yet, of course they are, in essence

and form, the same as they have

always been. As are we ….

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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