Changing Season

 At our last class Cheryl threw out the prompt: changing seasons

Changing Season

The light of late autumn slants across the sky before finally disappearing, leaving a hologram upon the deepening shadows. She walks to the river, breathes in the molting leaves and biting air. There on the bridge she waits . . .

like tears falling fast
she rues the coming of night
sad to see day end

Again, the changing season was a metaphor not just for this time and place but my mental space of late.

I’m planning to read more Basho in 2025 and use his works to inspire a revision of a creative nonfiction project on bicycling the UK from top to bottom that a small independent press MIGHT be interested in. I had a nice phone conversation with an editor who was interested, but unable to commit to the project. I know, we’ll see how it all goes—it’s a Basho journey.