Seasons

Writers Workshop

Just as I can vividly remember from the past 67 years the smell, sense, and observation of the coming of Spring, when the wild, psychedelic colors and the myriad shades of green seem gloriously overwhelming, and the different wildflowers, yellow to pinks to blues to the whites, in turns wildly exuberant then gracefully bowing out, to be joyfully replaced seemingly overnight, by another type of wildflower, wave after wave, for a few weeks. I, too, am a little tired, just by being among them.

This week, the last of the wildflowers are bowing out, and the non-human beings and I/we are now bracing...

 

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