Wandering in from the garden, one hand holds snips and the other a heavily-laden pouch — the bottom of my tee shirt gathered up and around. Garden bounty. I’d forgotten once again the old wooden harvest bowl, passed down from a line of great grandmothers to my grandmother, my mother to me.
The large, formerly circular now oval bowl as harvest vessel…Continue
Words seem weightless — wisps — unable to keep shape long enough to put pen to paper, type to keyboard, mind to imagination.…Continue