Do you see the difference?

Perhaps you sensed it when the cold air cut your lips the first weekend of October as you stepped off your porch in the dawn. Could you repeat this calm? It was soothing, knowing, in time there would be blankets, mugs, aspirational romance televised via linen conjoined in puckering lips. They had Italy, we had each other. But for now, it is scent of the pine, the crinkle of leaves underfoot, an ecosystem soon to hibernate. And could you repeat that which nature commits to flawlessly, yearly? To slumber, to rest, to a season of mindfulness. The trees drop their leaves, you cannot see them grow now, you cannot see them listen. Groundwater, undercurrents, babbling brooks of immortal movement, precipitations of inspirations. We can grow old in this forest, as everything else does.