Even in your autumn melancholy your leaves sing to me with tales of the summer of sun they’ve had, their veins withering into the earth in maroon gratitude.
Clouds cast their spell and hush away blue skies. Winter beckons, it’s its territory now. No more time for the folly of lovers in lakes, or family picnics showering the grass fields, or beggars reflecting sunlight off coins of sympathy.
I took long walks in Hasenheide and Tempelhof. Lungs filled with fresh air and the rhythm of my feet at the mercy or generosity of the sky’s mood.
One evening the sun screamed its goodbyes in hues of fuchsia. The next, it sank in a sallow haze, weary from the threats of nightfall with only twilight to buffer its defeat.