By Richard Day Gore

Before the wind, there was only Lucinda.

On still, sultry days, heliotrope would tickle his nostrils while he searched the field beyond Mercertown Road: veiled lavender sweetness that said she remembered.

Then the wind came and with it countless others. Carried to the horizon in a potpourri of souls, she left him for the second time.

2 thoughts on “Autumn

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