I have been silent since morning-Akhmatova
About what my dream sang to me.
For the red rose and the moonbeam
And for me--a single destiny.
The snows creep down the mountain slope,
And I am whiter than snow,
But sweetly the banks
Of the murky, overflowing river break off.
The cool rustling of spruce groves
Is more restful than waking thoughts.
I am (slowly? or perhaps rapidly?) growing addicted to biking.
And sunshine, though that is nothing new.
Autumn draws nearer and summer wanes, but I am prepared (I can hope?) for the transition. This time, at least...this time.