Last evening I sat in the garden watching the sun crouch down among the pines and the shadows stretch long, dark fingers across the lawns.
There is something incredibly beautiful about a summer garden heading into its final hours. Perhaps melancholy, yet still holding forth that fragile-edged beauty that whispers to one's soul --
“Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence.
Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance.
Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence."