It is fall and the browning leaves sound like pages turning in the wind. A year’s history is written there and I am settling down into the pages, looking at the players and plot, but, above all, the theme. With Shakespearean grace, this writer paints such lovely words as only the heart can read – an eternal theme written with the bodies of all that ever lived or was….
It is fall, and another year has passed – writer and reader still slumbering in a dream.