Sonya Wilson's Blog

Fall. Winds of sadness. Too much chatter from the outside. Retreat into the wind, the talking, telling breeze that promises darkness and cold to come.
The puzzle piece does not exist, no matter how many you try to fit in. Beautiful loneliness. But there’s something different this time. I can hear the wind, howling from where it came from nowhere. Or maybe that’s a plane. It doesn’t matter. It still howls.
The hummingbird likes the new purple agastache, or maybe it’s a salvia, or maybe a hybrid of accidental elements. I watch it eagerly suck the nectar, but I can’t follow the beating of its wings.
When I picked out the agastache/salvia, there was a bee in it. I waited patiently for it to finish flitting from flower to flower. But it didn’t. It buzzed about, taking no notice of me, and then stuck its head in the center of a flower and played dead for awhile. I eventually bought the bee.

Why does memory pick autumn?

This entry was posted on October 4, 2015 at 1:39 am and is filed under Ramblings. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.