Bare Ruined Choirs

Beautiful. I am so grateful to have stumbled upon your writings, they enrich my soul.

Nature Is What We See

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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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well, what do you know?
drug addict burgled own gran
life is sad, let’s laugh

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work, rest and rosé

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a glass of rosé
after a long day at work
pain becomes pleasure

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Beacon of joy

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extracting comfort
from Mr Shrimp’s glowing eyes
guides me to my home

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temperature control

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a crusade of clouds
sailing through this one big sky
that kisses the earth

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a shepherd’s fear

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early morning glow
warnings and superstitions
that my eyes won’t hear

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the call of the sea

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boats on the water
waiting for an adventure
while their masters sleep

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