The air is crisp and cold and I don’t get the feeling that things are dying. Rather, things are changing.
Hopkins has a poem on autumn that I have to look at again. The time of the poem is indeterminate: it looks like the child is watching fall turn into winter, and the implied spring that the earth will have but she will not could be the burden the child feels.
The child may mourn, but this time is going well for me. I only wish I had been more thoughtful recently, but that will happen. If those trees can be beautiful in fading away, I certainly can do more while being alive.
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