In the moments just before dusk the light lengthens, lemon-gold, over the grass: swells, then billows flags of flame tearing in the wind, wave after wave of ochre and umber resounding on the shores of evening, and finally becomes a thing almost incarnate—the clear flesh of the orchid evaporating on its stem might be the opposite of this— and thoughtless you reach to touch it so it thins, fades, and is gone.
FOUR REMEMBRANCESView Post
DOXOLOGY: THE FALLING LIGHTView Post
We began by viewing each other as enemies and ended up holding hands—a young college student and a broken soldier holding hands together in the brightness of early winter. I give his story to you now because it’s all I can do to relieve the heavy tenderness I still feel for him to this day.