They say the seasons come and go. They say it has always been the same. I say the leaves look different from last fall, and the yellow a little dusty. I say the pathway is different, maybe a little more tiled, with more footprints upon them. I say the rain feels a little different. Perhaps with a little more acid. They say that when winter comes, all you see is white. I say that it comes indeed but all I see are pillows. What I feel are socks and wool, as hot shifts to ice, and ice to cold sweat on satin. As sweat dries to whispers, and clouds bow to unstoppable rays. They say that when fall comes the trees die. Yet all I see are the leaves making sacrifices for the mothers they love. All I see are these ones flowering the earth. Mimicking the snowfall as it drops. Saying goodbye to their beloved, while lovers fall in love at its sight. Yet all I see is beauty. All I see is color even for this short while, The sight of yellow follows me through the w
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