In October — when the first flashes of gold appear in the beech tree beyond my writing room window, and fallen leaf fragments glimmer on pavements — I think of Robert Frost’s poem Nothing Gold Can Stay: ‘Nature’s first green is gold/ Her hardest hue to hold.’ My woods on the hill shine bright in October, trees a-glitter. I pick a bouquet of golden beec…
© 2024 Laura Pashby
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