Keeping cadence with the breeze, she sways off the corner of the front porch, holding the post lightly to keep from falling. Her feet swivel on the edge of the floor boards a few inches above the cracked earth. Morning sunlight filters through her dark, ribbon-bound curls. The warmth hasn’t left the early autumn air.
She swings forward, lightly depositing a kiss on my forehead, then my lips. She loiters there.
“Don’t worry about the harvest, Love. Things will work out.”
Her lilac fragrance becomes her. She deserves more than a dusty front porch and a bottle of perfume. The boys race off to the barn while my barefoot moppet trundles past with her rag dolly.
I dread sending them east. Winters are so harsh.