The flower-suns

The leaves are starting to fall here. We never tire of announcing, every year, the beginning of autumn. At this stage, the decline may seem philosophical. The air seems to be at the peak of its breath, already imbued with soft, dense juices, like the one in these rooms where the dying fall asleep.

It may rain this morning, the sun also disappears, for the duration of a storm. There is only tranquility in appearance; the sum of realities, as we can sense, rarely cross the barrier of zero.

Never mind, there will always be the sun of childhood to make us understand that life is willing to do without equations.