the night is misty and damp and dark. too clouded with humidity to see the moon. the streets are heavy and pungent. they smell of honeysuckle. and climbing roses. lemon balm and grass. thick green smells. i came home from the bookstore a little after 10. and edgar and i wandered down to the darkened park that overlooks the harbor. the grass long and dewy. wet, really.
we passed neighborhood homes with windows sleepily lit. and our little stone house almost swallowed by the front meadow. hollyhocks growing up the walls. and other plants, some identified and others not, crowding the plot that leads to our front door. waist high in spots. it makes me giddy to see it, i love it so. i love it's misunderstood beauty.
this night is shadowy and gothic, like a victorian novel. still and silent. shrouded.
A Visit to the Guy Wolff Pottery
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