Fall Home

by Anna

Like the shade of ancestry it haunts me. Sidewalk squares, and graveyard statues, each one whispers its own grievance. Smoky sunlight sifts through finger branches and mossy hair of oak tree and magnolia. A marble scent entices from old houses of old ladies who wore simple pearls and weekday gloves. Six o’clock the chimes ring from the courthouse square, the siren song from silver bodiced sycamores. Please remember; must remember.


Anna, author of Pinehurst, is starting to write again after 17 years in the doldrums. We're happy about that.

No comments: