I don’t like this time of year.

It’s the uneasy space between fall and winter.
The first frost has come and gone.   Some trees are barren while others linger.   One bush has two yellow roses despite her sisters’ surrender.

Everything is dead and dying.  A season’s worth of growing effort is under our feet and we trample it without a thought.

Soon, all too soon, winter will arrive with all of it’s inconveniences – the cold – the ice – quietness of death.

However, eventually, even winter’s death must die and spring is reborn from the snow’s filth.

But now… now is the time when a year’s worth of effort, struggle, and sacrifice, means nothing.

I do not like this time of year.
Warm life does not bother me.  I do not fear winter’s death.
I cannot stand to watch it die and the struggle wasted.

Dying is worse than death.