The wind blows.
The last leaves rustle.
You can smell winter in the air.
The sun shines.
You can almost feel it,
a pretense of warmth on your wool coat.
Seasons are uncertain here.
and it time that becomes a virtue,
nothing you can count on
whether good, or bad,
but just a flow of color and cacophony.
Leaves dance, and so do you,
often just to stay warm.
About this poem
Sometimes we flurry through activities just because we need the activity. Not for any real reason. Perhaps the stillness is too cold.