Rough leaves scatter, the winged head south, as the many grounded seek shelter from winter’s bloom. We shuffle in our decks with the coming seasons, buried within the cards. A time for reflection persists, as we sit round the table, passing with the moments. Watching the world die. Everything is stripped bare, revealing are its truths. We shed our skins, as we pine for the light, the warmth to return to our bones. Stretching our legs as the rose burst through the thorn.
– Josh Fleming