It is coming.
Like birds flying north
sensing a change of season,
I feel it.
Like a cold blow of the wind
In a mid-summer night,
or a calm, sunny sky
right before a tempest,
I know it's coming.
When it comes,
It's what it is,
a storm wrecking everything
on its wake.
I tell myself I'm ready
for this change of season,
But I never am.
Never was,
never will be.
