Seasons

A walk around the city.

That desire that consumes you most likely between the changing of the seasons.

Some people are craving for the smell of the earth after a rainy day. Others

are amazed by the autumn leaves colour switching from green to red, purple or

whatsoever. Some sit on a bench to catch the flowers opening time-lapse. While most of the people are eager for the sun to lurch closer to the earth.

 These periods come and go like moths, diving from cold to warmth.

My favourite one lies in the transition from Winter to Spring. Therefore, I'd

like to consider a fifth season for my own pleasure and name it: Winsper-swing.

 No violins were set for "winsper-swing" but its silence lingers on, spilled with an earnest and familiar voice of the wind. Hereby, I'm admiring the amber-tainted skythrough my shades and as I gaze, I couldn't help myself from thinking about Baudelaire's "Brumes et pluies" when he expressed his love for seasons for enfolding his heart and mind entirely.

 Would it be too much to ask the time to freeze and let me dive eternally in the winsper-swing’s breeze? For this freedom and joy I rarely feel.