Some days, in the fall, when the sun becomes frayed by the clouds, wet leaves outside, on the ground, in the gutter, against the curb, seem quite sad and lonely. What I project on them boomerangs into my own presence against the glass, looking out, wondering where society and warmth are, wondering if I'll experience fullness again. I wonder where the Presence of life is, if it ever Is, if I ever knew it As. Hollowness haunts.

It has been an interestingly lonely type of day in this way. I had an old friend over to play music and for soup, but still something persisted and kept a sense of aloneness alive. As soon as the friend left, the feeling crescendoed into even more plaintive inward murmurings as if I had not seen a soul outside the cabin in a long time. As if a fuller emptiness had settled to stay. I looked out, and even in the cul-de-sac, it was only me and the gray sky and the geese and the wretched leaves, once living and green and hopeful, but now fallen, pasted, cold. One might could see this as the beautiful angst of the autumn season, the pulsations of the dying cycle, the final cries of end. We've been given the opportunity to participate in its own overt symbols and meaning, the reminder of earthly mortality. Still, the opportunity of this feels like a forced lesson, one we'd rather turn our eyes from.

Simply put ... it's just late October on a gray day with the sense of absence permeating the air.

I'm grateful for it's seasonal song, though. I feel lonely, but known as one with the hope of green growth in another season of good remembrance.