Violet Breath

English Reflection

October strips the world to its thinnest skin. Leaves detach. Light thins. In that deliberate dimming, what was always there surfaces, no longer hidden under the noise of bright afternoons. Clarity does not arrive as a flood. It arrives as a removal. You pause at the window and breathe once, slowly, letting the afternoon dissolve into violet. The crows on the wire are not ominous. They are punctuation. You let the silence do what you have been too busy to do: sort. What is yours to carry. What is only passing through the house. The dark is not the absence of sight. It is the eye finally resting. You do not need to explain the season to yourself. The fog outside is not a threat. It is a boundary, saying here, here, here is where you begin again. Clarity is not a revelation. It is the quiet act of setting down what was never yours to hold.

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