The heat, the relentless sun turning the land to an endless expanse of grass too tired to even be golden. Dead ash, the color of defeat. Time seemed to stand still and we thought it would never end, that the rains would never come. That the land had fallen into death, crumpled into defeat, finished, done for. And then, from the exhausted silence, renewal. Life again. Small, wonderous miracles. Gifts of hope in a hard but still-fecund world. .
Thank You.
Thank You.
Thank You.
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2 comments:
you, ann calhoun, are an exquisite writer.
Wine from the grapes of a wizened vine.
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