Two autumns and I have not changed enough.
Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.
Some people fall head over heels. Other people begin to fall without even knowing it—love grows like a spring flower beneath last autumn’s leaves and catches them by surprise.
Everyone goes through their winters and springs, and their summers and autumns.
I love Toronto's long autumns, warm with windy swirls of golden spores, redolent with giant, sun-roasted leaves flapping up and down the streets, and horrible winter always seeming far, far off!