running through the underworld of every being
as a silent, steady brook
sometimes bursting into powerful waterfalls
dragging into shifts
the mind might not be prepared for yet
or at least
had not seen coming
autumn is there to stay
the darkness has closed in
the cold has settled
the wind rushes through the leaves
even if they still cling to their old belonging
there is nothing to say
no reason to fight against
the change of season
as there is no sense
in resisting the flow of the inner brook
called longing