I am within my very own season • eternal though soaked • nearing the end • where the sun goes down and down; onwards slowly, solely: but could I catch the summer rays within my hands? "Could I really do so some day? Or am I suspended between the reality and of the fantastic?" Smells of fresh soil neath my nostrils, as aeration is provided by the worms • fat within their cells • and blind without organs of sight. The burning leaves smoky greenish and grey • for the fresh has blended with the faded • and all is sodden anyway -despite the day being a long sunny one. Sodden leaves burn slow, yet smoke with fervorous attempts to glow right before my lachrymal eyes -yet I love, yet I love.Yet I love this second season now known.