The Wistful Mountain
The great oak in the center of the parlor had been with us for forty years, its roots tangled deep into the foundation stones of the old manor house, its branches pressing against the ceiling beams like the arms of a sleeping giant, and I remember the way the light used to fall through its leaves in the late afternoon, creating a dappled, shifting mosaic on the Persian rug where I sat as a...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior