After days and days of rain and flood warnings, I woke up to sun today. I’m hoping this damp world dries out to crisp hay, apples, leaves. Also, pumpkins. If it doesn’t stop raining (it might already be too late) the pumpkins will rot and I will go on mad canned pumpkin buying sprees to make sure I don’t run out.
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.