In the field across from my balcony, the ragweed, which I've been blaming for my fatigue and sinus issues these last few days, is almost insultingly yellow.
But the trees and grasses are deep green, lush from the rain that's fallen over the last few weeks. The sun, hot as a beach sun on my skin, is made bearable by a soft breeze.
It's September. But for a certain slant of light and a peculiar--almost cloying--sweetness in the air, it could be April. The year could just as easily be turning toward summer as to the short, cold days of winter.
I'm trying my best to enjoy the pleasure of warm, sunny days while they last. It's not unlike draining a glass of your favorite drink to the dregs, savoring the taste on your lips, sure and yet unsure—as all living things—that you'll be able to have this experience again.
No comments:
Post a Comment