For now, I can only tell small things. The turn of seasons floods me with loss like new. Tears bring brief relief. Another long cold spell coming. Will I endure? Change for better or worse?
Yesterday I looked up from my desk and happened to glimpse the gold birch leaves catch the last light of the setting sun. They blazed against the dusky sky, miraculously unconsumed. I wanted to stare until that fire lit me too, but, distracted, I forgot and returned to my tasks. By the time I looked through the window again, all I saw was starless night.
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