You know summer is coming to an end when the tomato shakes the vine, red and juicy. The roses are gone, the grapes are losing their green leaves. But the tomato is still ripe with wonder
that it is flourishing. It won’t last.
I am almost weary of this summer, although it’s been good to me in my theatre world. Not so good in my publishing world. I long to
go into my winter writing with some thought that what I do write is read and appreciated. BUT my book has languished. I need to
harden my heart against the cold months with an armor of truths about how petrifying life can be. Then I can dissolve into the
fertility of next spring.