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What is it?

Its so smooth,flowable at times;

then trivial, ever esoteric.

The pretensions, they haze

what is real.

There are thoughts akin;

There are things to be said;

There are dams to be broken.

And then, 

I expect a surge,

a blissful one

bearing all the sweet fragrances.

Autumn is giving way to winter

outside my window.

The yellowed leaves, 

no longer falling,

no longer visible.

A layer of soil 

now graves them.

The sweet chill in the air,

its not reminiscent of anything.

All this is new.

The moon,

still hangs by the old tree's branch,

now only, I hear its conversation 

with the night.

Here, I dream when awake.

I barely sleep, with my mind empty.

There is beauty

in everything.

There is a bliss

in every second.