To me, November frost signifies the twilight of winter, the dawning bleakness over mellowness.

A procession of people march across the bridge that leads from Autumn to Winter. A small boy stops, bends down, and picks up a leaf. An old man stops, sheds tears, and continues on his journey. He knows that he can get no more from a leaf than he can give it. Besides, he can't bend down.

As the procession continues in its perpetual circular tracks, the air gets colder, the leaves upon the ground lessen in their number, the trees shudder in their nakedness, and the great frost remains. A barefoot girl collapses. Her eyes search the sky. She dies. Nobody seems to notice. The procession reaches a crossroad. Straight ahead is the path of Christianity, the Bhudism and Islam and Voodoo. To the right, the path of alcohol, and to the left, the path of drugs. Both the latter paths are forms of escaping from the realms of one phantasmagoria to another. If you can survive the treacheries of whichever path you decide to take, you will reach Winter. But all paths, all seasons, are just temporary. Your eventual destination cannot be reached until the angel of death descends upon you.

The procession reaches Winter. From there it will continue into Spring. Many failed to survive the journey. What became of them? Very few succeeded in going straight along their paths until the "good lord" saw fit to recruit (?) them. How were they rewarded?

A small boy throws a leaf to the ground as he runs along the snow laden land. An old man ... Where are all the old men?

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