My soul is tied to falling leaves, burnt crimson and gold, and a brisk breeze.
Perhaps it is foolish to think, but I do so anyway:
The world is bright and beautiful.
In my mind, the year does not start with the spring—
new life
new love
new beginnings.
No, it begins with change.
YOU ARE READING
seasons of my heart
PoetryLove: infinitely personal and consistently imperfect. Life: like the seasons, continues to move on; never stopping and always changing. Hope: the persistent light in the dark.
