Like death row prisoners, the reprieve has come.
I refer to the weather.
Of course, it’s impossible to dress correctly, between the outdoors’ temperature and the indoors’, but you can’t have everything.
Fall is here – and rightfully so – but it’s only the calendar that believes it. Outside, the temperature is well above normal; the lawn looks better than it has all summer, what with the late-night rains; and my fall and winter clothes are lined up, all wooly and petulant; and like the felon for whom the bell does not toll, I am giddy with joy.
It’s silly, really, how easily I am amused.
I want to run. Well, I wish I could run without the suspicion that a bag full of puppies has been attached to my rear end, but I suppose – I suppose! – that’s my own fault… I think I could pull off a gambol. Maybe a prance? Perhaps I’ll settle for a jaunty walk. But whatever the gait, I’ll be outside today, squinting in that endearingly near-sighted way I have, dead-heading marigolds and planning next year’s flowerboxes.
All of our seasons are too short.
Bettered by Feathers
1 hour ago