No Space For Regret

 

Summer is winding down. A thin crispness shapes the morning. Temperatures rise slowly, bringing humid afternoons. A stretch of thunderstorms followed by a week of drought, extremes can resemble imperfection.

I separate the mint, fashioning a bouquet I donate to a restaurant each year. Overtaken by weeds, I trim the flowers and brown, leaves. What is left is more than what I removed.

I don’t envy to be young, nor do I despise my years.

Back side of summer
Reaching toward Autumn’s colors
Each season a gift

 

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