Innocence

How glad I was to live in a world where there are Octobers. But the month passed, and in the blink of an eye it was November — the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. But unlike Anne Shirley, I could hope for no pineland alleys, no great sweeping wind. The fogs in my soul survive and thicken yet.