On a gravel road about 5 miles from here, in the fall, there is a patch of woods that once owned me. My bus ride took me by that spot for much of my childhood and I never tired of it. If I became distracted and didn't see it, I felt cheated. The house sitting on the edge of the treeline was my house; I imagined that I would live there, rooms lit by the glow of hickory leaves in some fantastic, perpetual October.
Fall was my favorite season, but where I live now, Spring makes her case. She presents warmth, daffodils, trees coming into bud, places along my everyday path that feel like home.
I'm not a photographer. I struggle to capture what I see: the red reeds along the roadside giving way to new growth; the willows dripping yellow-green; the tangled, glowing forsythia; grey branches surrounded by wisps of peach and orange, as if the trees themselves are tatting.
In the battle of the best season, for today, Spring wins.
Announcing Williamston Theatre’s 2025-2026 Season!
2 months ago
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