Tam and I cleared the front yard yesterday, raked up all the leaves. Viola! Well, more of a cello, really, lumbering and sad as a small, lost pachyderm, picking out a minor-key melody of turning seasons and cold winds to follow:
The job is not without benefits: along the no-man's-land between sidewalk and street, hidden under leaves gold, brown and shameless red, the year's last few violets are quietly blooming, dreaming still of a summer now well-lost.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago