I pluck these ripe, juicy days as if they were berries and heap them in my basket of remembrances to contemplate on cold, winter days. I’ll sit with snow drifting outside my window and recall these fields filled with bees and wildflowers and remember the steamy heat and how the sun burned my neck and nose.
I’ll remember the fragrance of it, the carrot smell of Queen Anne’s lace, the dry honey of the goldenrod. And I’ll see this golden field with its crown of Joe-Pye Weed standing tall against the deep green woods, waltzing in the breeze.
It may not entirely warm me. But it will tell me to hold on and remind me that even snow doesn’t last forever.