I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman,
the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things
come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go,
not one lasts.
Carl Sandburg, 1878-1967.
I had to stop outside Emmy’s school and take a photo of the cross in front of these beautiful leaves. The morning sun lit up all the trees in our little town. Breathtaking color.