This day had a difficult birth. Rain pelting. Wind blowing. Now that the sun has risen behind gray clouds, the rain has calmed, although tree branches still dance in the wind. Blue sky peeps through fast-moving clouds. All is in flux. This breath. This movement of the eyes. These hands. Nothing is fixed.
Autumn’s sighing, Moaning, dying; Clouds are flying On like steeds; While their shadows O’er the meadows Walk like widows Deck’d in weeds. ‘Autumn’s Sighing’ by American poet Thomas Buchanan Read (1822-1872).