begins the slow melancholy dance of Autumn. fallen colored waxen tiles cover the last remaining sprouts of green that not so long ago were new. beseeched and then provoked I am restless in my sleep. beneath my ship the tide conspires and acts together with my wish and tugs against my ties. insistent persuasive memory of southern trades command... luring me perceptively to leave this place behind. our always welcome visitants have for months performed and now fled south to lower latitudes... as must I. away, the vindictive polar wind that soon arrives to leave faceless all the dancing girls of spring and summer brought. a gray suspension... despondent sky... an icy harbor belabors me... foretelling of sequestered ships unable then to move. quarantined we soon shall be, none will come nor go.

zahida