As the days stay cooler the morning glories show their faces for longer stretches—the unutterable purple of it all. The yellow rose bush created two perfect specimens, and the red one is eagerly producing buds, despite its spindly body.
I am rereading Anne of Windy Poplars and already grieving its impending end. L.M. Montgomery did not have the rosy life she liked to commit to paper, but she never lost fluency in talking streams and kindred spirits. It is strange thinking of all the Serious Men I read in high school literature classes, when women most often tell the stories I want to remember. I suppose because Montgomery used words like “belovedest” she could not make the canon of Great Grim Writing.