Seasons Past is dedicated to the time that outruns us, and the time we outrun. It's the nostalgia we dwell in, and the grief of prediction which dwells in us.

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Seasons Past also exists for out-of-season poetry and prose. Ruminations on the death of autumn in the middle of summer; mourning the chill of spring in the dead of winter.

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This is all to say that, here, nostalgia, yearning, and suddenly remembered drafts about autumn leaves are all welcomed. I hope you'll join me in reminiscing by submitting