There is something so...gray about this time of year.
It's a little foreboding. (Forbidding?)
Clouds lower and glower. Over what's left of the flowers (hold your applause, please).
This will be our last visit to the farm this season.
We won't be back 'til the crocuses are peeping.
Doesn't that feel like forever from here?
Fall. It feels like the end.
|Slightly less eager.|
Get a punkin, go inside, drink some hot cider.
Light a candle against the dark, and learn to appreciate the rest, the calm, the quiet.
Let's work on it together.