IN THE YEAR OF THE FALLING LEAVES (The New Reality)

-----I continue here with some excerpts from what I wrote in September:
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-----Sunday had to have been the worst. Sunday, with its realization, like a cold winter wind that the world could be harsh. It cut and it stung and there was no changing the facts of it. As with those dreadful, first Arctic gusts, one knows what is to come. There is that slow, but sure decline and the loss of all that thrives. The colour, the light, the warmth...all that sustains ebbs away. I've always hated Sundays. When I was a kid it meant rushed homework and nothing on television but the Farm Report and religious shows. It isn't the day of rest. Rather, it's one of gloom and despair. And now---death.
-----Sunday meant that there was no hope.
-----When I came out I'd thrown a book of poems into my purse along with this notebook. I found a great line in one of the pieces:
....."Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
......Of that which once was great, is passed away." (William Wordsworth)