I have come to regard November as the older, harder man’s October. I appreciate the early darkness and cooler temperatures. It puts my mind in a different place than October. It is a month for a quieter, slightly more subdued celebration of summer’s death as winter tightens its grip.
Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.
Which one’s your favourite? Just curious…Glad you came ❤