“I sit beside the fire and think
Of all that I have seen
Of meadow flowers and butterflies
In summers that have been
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were
With morning mist and silver sun
And wind upon my hair.”
I am not sitting next to the fire thinking of what was. Not yet.
The hillsides just exploded in colors. There are moments, when the sun breaks through. It’s pure magic. In other places the wind has already blown the leaves to the ground. Every morning I wake up to a different scenery.
That’s why I am sitting next to the fire, only to warm up my creaky bones.