Beautiful. I am so grateful to have stumbled upon your writings, they enrich my soul.
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon the boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang….
~William Shakespeare, Sonnet LXXIII
Here in Middle Tennessee winter has finally come, hopscotching over autumn entirely. This year the miserable heat of summer lingered and lingered and lingered, and the drought deepened and deepened and deepened, from moderate to severe to extreme. Most of the leaves simply curled up from the edges, fading from green to brown and then dropping to the ground with hardly a flare of color to remind us that the world is turning, that the world is only a great blue ball rolling down a great glass hill with nary a pebble to slow its descent, and gaining speed with each rotation.
My favorite season is spring—until fall arrives, and then…
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