There is truth in a tree, yet it’s of a different kind, now. It’s not the verity born of strength and affirmation, but the peaceful quiet of fulfillment and endings.

The passing of summer is the passing of beauty; first the chicory is gone and now the goldenrod has faded. I feel winter rushing towards me in the painful blue of sky. The maples are busy making their own light; the long deep breath of Autumn has begun. 

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