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The more things change...

Change is not so much what we make as it is what happens to us unawares. Not everything that changes is progress but it is inevitable that everything changes. The seasons flow on, all too quickly. We tighten our life-vests, and try to steer clear of the rocks. Along our way down the river, we are grateful for every resting place. Here's ours. Above, as it was in our first August here in 2016, and below, as it is now. We still miss the old cherry tree in the foreground of the first photo. It died the year after we moved here. We've carved a garden out of the hill and planted blueberries on the slope above. One thing hasn't changed. We're still here. It's still home. We'll hold to that reality as long as we can. henrymitchellbooks.com

Strayaway garden...


My little garden, like a strayaway child, suffers for want of attention. Even so, in that first golden hour after sunup, it is a magical place, where stones breathe and trees speak and the liquid light clings to surfaces like water poured out.

I should spend more time out there. Who knows what stories might be lurking in the shadows, hungry to be told?

 

henrymitchellbooks.com

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