Winter has come, such as it does here.
Trees are still green but the sunlight has a pale coolness
slanting low in the sky.
Fields lay bare after the harvest; fallow, waiting.
The days short.
This is a time for working.
There are no flowers in sun dappled fields to call me away,
the siren song of summer has silenced.
Winter whispers "death,"
a more sobering word, reminding:
life is short.
Three months I have already been here.
Can this be?
How quickly passed, and quickly passing.
So much I want to do, to learn, to experience.
Is there enough time?
Is there ever enough time?