August’s feel has made me melancholy. I know I should be grateful in reprieve and arrival of a cool, to take comfort in the change; but in it, I feel summer’s end. Summer’s death into usher of fall when we are perhaps most open, showing—and knowing—of our truest selves. But then comes winter, cold and emptiness that feels as death even when it isn’t; the loneliness, the emptiness, waiting again for spring and, from the winter, to feel alive again.
Season is changing and there is somberness in the see. A part of me is sad, even if I can’t explain.
It has lived a special way.
I am sad to see it go.