It’s getting dark earlier and earlier. Trees bare. One day cold, the next is not. Up and down. The only thing constant is brown grass and shrubs.

Cars with salt stains on them. A grayish white. Old trucks rusting. Metal chipped. Falling off.

Two and half months until St. Patrick’s Day. Nature will blossom, and so will young love. But that someday will die as well. Still, you have hope.

I find myself alone these days. Romance has come and gone. These are the years that go by fast. One day, you turn around, and it’s summer. Next day, you turn around, and it’s fall.

These springs and winters come and go. I wait for calendars to stop. For clocks to halt. I wait. And I wait, for September.