Yesterday I felt the texture of the air beginning to change. In the hour of vespers, I was given tranquility again signaling the coming moment when light is swallowed back into the womb of darkness; when sound returns to the bosom of silence. The music is changing as instruments of wind and string summon the crescendo of the moon. Soon, it will be time to harvest the fruits of intimacy from beneath hir dress of loosely sewn smoldering blossoms.
“Autumn is [the] Spring when every leaf is a flower.” ~Albert Camus~