Today, a day for curling up on the sofa, for reading on Emily Dickinson, for winter that came a little too soon (I know, we shall have warmth again--Minnesota's winters always start this way, a stutter in October, a hint of snow, and then that false promise of spring again, only to draw in those dank clouds that hover for so very long), and for a late harvest, digging through the withered plants, wishing those squash blossoms had just a little longer to become more. My thumbs are raw from snapping Brussels sprouts--small again this year, a raw adornment for salads.
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