This morning I found a folded note tucked inside an old book of poetry I’d brought from the swap. No signature, just a sprig of pressed ivy flattened like it had been there for years. The words were faint, pencilled in a neat, looping hand: “Every season leaves its mark.”

I read it three times before slipping it back between the pages. Some things aren’t meant to be taken away. It felt like the month itself had left me a reminder, a little punctuation mark before September begins.

Haiku
Pressed ivy whispers,
seasons turning quietly—
pages breathe again.