Precious Harvest
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A small, quiet home, lit within, by only one candle, one night lamp the shape of the moon and the cloudy light from the cracked kitchen window on a rainy Monday morning. As cold and bleak as it might seem, it is . . . untouchable by words . . . much to the writer’s lament. We are in the light of the harvest moon. Rain patters softly on my windows. It patters softly on the swamp cooler and echoes through the vent. Traffic slices over the wet road. The filter in the fish tank is a soothing constant flow. The keys click sporadically as they do the talking dance with the tips of my fingers. No amount of money in the world could buy this moment from me. It is priceless. It is the most precious of harvests.
