 | | 17/08/2016 14:54
Sur le blog Amy Nelson
the sound of music
In my head, there is a home for every wildflower and summer bug, for every wisp of grass, for every sunrise and cheek made rosy by it, for every singing chickadee and berry fallen from the tree. I grasp the seconds of this season so I can place them in my memory hall and carry it with me wherever I go. I run through the garden with my dog, I press my fingers against a tanned arm as I try to remember how pale the skin is when summer is gone. I live and I breathe a thousand times more. To fill my lungs with August is to put photographs into frames and hang them on the hallway leading me home. When I visit the ravine after rainfall, mosquitoes appear...
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