November carries a wind. A returned one that flows through, bringing back what was once lost. One that is familiar—not sharp, a thin air that slips into the lungs and offers relief.
It was sought through the seasons. In winter, I was fooled into believing it was still present. Distracted by the “new” I tricked myself into believing was a right of passage. In spring, it had escaped, though rumor said it had just settled. And by summer, the high humidity had swallowed it whole.
But it has returned, as did fall, and it is kind. The comfort in familiarity is my earned reward. How poetically planned, to find me again during the month of grace. Not perfect—leaves not yet turned—but hopeful.
With Love,
