Some look back at the summer with wistful eyes, longing for a time come and gone, passing from the senses and into the pages of memory. When the air crispens the leaves and petals and colors drip from their ends, the leaves sigh, and I exhale along with them. Energies unfurl, slackening against the chill of closing year. Is eventuality winter white? Are our hay days behind us in the sweet smell of warm growth, parted and packed until we use it up?
Flora Thompson is on my mind. Little Laura and her recollections.
What does tomorrow hold and how will my memories feel, rolling around the hearts and heads of my grandchildren?
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