the light is failing here. strange to find that this kind of dying, the annual kind, is a death of which we are not afraid. better words for what we are could be resolute, or stoic. knowing death is coming snaps close the fear blade. death now lets us savor light and time and warmth. we linger at windows, move our bodies into the beams that fall across the carpet.
all summer the trees blow green and nimble against our wall of windows. the light they cast is either invisible or immaterial, for lingering against it is something we rarely do. but now as the light thickens, slows, tips in where before it streamed and blew, we are taken aback. while we sadden we are nevertheless flush with gold. weak but solid. we notice. we sit up with our nerves unfurled and trembling. how many more days will we have before the limbs are bare? before our own limbs are covered and kept from the sharp and the cold to wait for spring. and how, how can we be longing for such a thing already?
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