Bits of a summer afternoon

And so it turns, day after day, season after season; the diurnal within the annual and the seasons of the heart within it, in a slight
syncopation of emotion and action, in endurance and agony.
The story of each hour, the tales that go untold.
Here I remain, a bent wordsmith who thinks she may write one day, in search of a muse and Mt. Helicon all at once. Poor midget, who doesn’t know that the price of wisdom is sight, and the price of the mead of poetry is love.