There never will be enough. I am jealous of time, wanting more and more of it. I cannot be at peace with my own mortality; I love this life so fiercely, even when wracked with dissatisfaction, that the idea of ever parting with it makes me gasp and shudder. And yet, I know when the time comes, I will have no choice.
It's a good time of year for All Saints, for Halloween. Golden light has turned to gray, as the song goes.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.
And now, loudly and again, O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being...
Fall is time for poetry and deep, tragic love for the fragile, fleeting summer sun. and there is never enough time for poetry. The light today was so perfectly November-ish, I wanted to kiss it.
Hi. That's me. I write, sometimes, about parenting, storytelling, and about living a life with stories.