The hands of harvest-
The afternoon settled around the table piece by piece, without asking for attention. Its small treasures gathered from a slow wandering—peach warm to the touch, a butterfly pausing before fluttering onward, grapes holding their dreams of wine. Wheat shafts golden nearby, reminding me how the season gives even as it lets go. Everything carried the feeling of the season turning, colors deepening, edges softening. I looked at these humble things—the curl of a leaf, the walnut shell cracked open, the insect tracing its steady path—and I felt time as a breath unraveling, a secret loosening, a confession the day forgets to hold. There was a scent of honey in the air, a murmur of life laid upon the table of time, a reminder of how beauty lingers in the simplest of moments, waiting for us to notice before it passes.
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