As I write this, it’s morning on October 2. Our heat is on, the fireplace as well – it’s gas, merely a click and we’re cozy. I’m sitting with a cup of hot tea and a cat curled up at my side. The candle I have burning is called “Hickory Hearth.”
I open with that because after over a year in Minnesota, I’m still in a daze that I live where there’s autumn. A for-real, honest-to-goodness, chilly air and crunchy leaves kind of autumn.
Yesterday I posted this on Feeding on Folly’s Facebook page:
(I hadn’t posted anything for awhile and Facebook gets nervous when you’re away too long. They fear you might be in danger of getting a life.)
I didn’t know anything about Humbert Wolfe when I found the poem (one of the most popular British authors of the 1920s, though “little read now”), but I liked the…
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