Oh those dreams that come as seasons shift bringing winter winds to our windows to disrupt our desires with their own. It is when these dreams shift too that I start life in a Minor Key. The carpet of gold leaves blows away showing the destruction of the year beneath. My dog does not linger in the outdoors. Poets love the melancholy proving me no poet. I want the light to fall from the chalice of the Universe spilling over every day. I want the splatters to shine in the dark matter that eludes us except as a glue from image to image.