It ends now.
A strange month.
Hope as pure as the fresh-from-womb-shining infant that fills the air with the smell of milk and birth.
Disappointment as bleak as winter, cloaked in sorrow, burdened with impossible, thwarted expectations.
Yearning as keen as a knife-edge, a desperate, relentless, sharp blade cutting far deeper than flesh.
Admiration for something, someone, whose beauty, poise and innocence has struck me dumb.
In these changing trees I see a thousand colors.
And a new leaf.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Photo stolen from theAgonoize