The weather is turning, she arrives at last, this winter. Except for the oaks, trees everywhere are naked without shame. The night air is cold, a new moon glistens through the bare branches.
Standing outside on the terrace, the faint perfume of my neighbor's chimney anchors me to my home. Its a good thing too, because in my mind, I am always leaving. Inside of me there is anxiousness which seems insatiable. So thus, I cling to the trees in every season with all my might. Without my senses I would be elsewhere, floating away, being everywhere and nowhere all at once. Being like perfume, I suppose.