I look all about me on the misty, moisty, dew filled morning. The trees are covered with frosting, hanging heavy. I stop to be reminded, only November, still November. Sometimes my dance with autumn is more like a gliding, sliding, fairy ride skiing. On these days, I need often stop to do the math. Still November. Still autumn. Yes, each season has three months. There are four seasons. Still autumn.
That excitement building makes me dream on the winter wonderland. I must block those visions of long, cold January. I must block those visions of sometimes smothering March. As I glide in this seeming winter wonderland, though still autumn, I embrace the beauty of the day.





I grasp hold of the magic. Vow never to let it slide away.

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SAD