The air is crisp and clean, and in the mornings there is a light frost on the ground. The sun sets early; by six thirty it is almost dark. It is winter. It is December. As the sun burns down like a blazing torch upon us during these summer months….I dream of December. I dream of Fall.
Where once, in my youth I was a child of the sun, a player of baseball, a fisherman and a reveler in the long days of summer, age has taken my stamina and infirmities have slowed my need to sweat. I don’t want to wish away time, and I won’t. I’ll grow some nice tomatoes and have some sandwiches, and take my time in the sun in smaller doses.
But when the first breeze of Autumn blows….I hope I’m one of the first in line to get a blast of that fresh, wonderful sweet smell.
Writing for Sanity's Sake 