The periwinkle blue sky, the periwinkle blue door, and the flushing hydrangeas were singing in harmony.
The air held hazy end-of-summer-afternoon light. The old stones bucked and leaned in their mossy banks.
Everytime we go back to Gilbertsville, I tell myself: It's not going to be the same. It's not as good as you remember. Surely there's some broken down houses you didn't see last time. Surely, surely. And everytime, we find it better than we left it. We find the little stone church with the blue door, surrounded by flushing hydrangeas.
The air held hazy end-of-summer-afternoon light. The old stones bucked and leaned in their mossy banks.
Everytime we go back to Gilbertsville, I tell myself: It's not going to be the same. It's not as good as you remember. Surely there's some broken down houses you didn't see last time. Surely, surely. And everytime, we find it better than we left it. We find the little stone church with the blue door, surrounded by flushing hydrangeas.
I'm not sure I believe in heaven. But if there is one, I'm pretty sure it looks like Gilbertsville.
2 comments:
looks gorgeous! i can't wait to see how serene the winter is - fields of untouched snow. it's gonna be fabulous!!
Beautiful! your pictures and your writing!
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