November 1st
It snowed last night. I took a walk in the cold white. It seemed so natural. I saw white, and ice, my breath.
I recall Summer, sort of. It's a dream I had last night. I try to feel the hot dry, to smell the soft flowers and green leaves. It's a tale expertly told by someone home from the tropics: Not my memory.
Winter, that is reality, truth; cold, white, stark, death. I feed the birds fairy seeds grown in another world; stored in my basement. My garden is an elaborately plotted ruse. The Summer tools, toys and clothes are a joke. the trees have been dead for years.
When I was a child, there was summer. Rain so warm I would play in it. Sun so hot it would melt my identity. I could picture it in Winter; even still, now.
But last Summer is an image of beaches and lawns. Perhaps I am too busy? Perhaps it is too short? Maybe it's a weird dream and Summer really has gone. She moved south, because the winter was too long and cold, but She left us a dream of Her for comfort in the long Winter night.